FOOTNOTES: (continued 3)

"Confound the unmannerly carl," muttered Tyler, as he rushed forward with his men to seek an explanation in the room itself. The door, however, resisted all their efforts; and this only strengthening their hasty suspicions respecting Lancaster, the stout polished oak was presently split asunder by their axes, and they forced an entrance into a small light apartment, furnished in a style of eastern luxury. From the carved ceiling were hanging the broken links of a gold chain; and on the soft crimson cushions of an ebony couch, and on the floor, were scattered the miscellaneous contents of an exquisite ivory cabinet.

"He has escaped us!" shouted Tyler and the others, as, after casting a rapid glance around the empty apartment, they darted through an open door on the other side. This led into a luxurious dressing room, and this again into a sumptuous dormitory. If there were any outlet from this room, it was concealed by the splendid hangings, and the pursuers, after assuring themselves that no human being was within, returned to the dressing-room. The door of egress from this apartment was secured on the outside, and so, without a moment's delay, they had recourse to their former expedient, and the door was instantly hewn to splinters. On creeping through the aperture, and passing through a short passage, they found themselves in the gallery that ran round the hall. Here, chafing with disappointment, the pursuers had only to hope that they might, by chance, take the right scent, and were rushing along the gallery, when Tyler, casting his eyes below, and observing the galleyman cross the hall, hallooed to him; and then springing along the gallery, and down the spiral stairs, seized Wells rather unceremoniously, and upbraided him with conniving at the escape of Lancaster.

"Avast there! Master Tyler," said Wells, shaking off the grip of the smith; "I know no more of Lancaster than yourself: I told you this morning he was on the borders—and so, how, in the name of all the saints, could he be here?—but I tell ye, there are some here who would rather lay hand upon John of Gaunt's gold than upon John of Gaunt's body!"

"They have better not come across me," replied the smith, comprehending the galleyman's hint; but still persisting in his scepticism, he resumed his search. But even the smith was, at length, compelled to admit that, whether Lancaster had escaped or not, it did not appear likely that he would be found;—and the order was given for firing the palace. At the same instant a leathern jack, covered all over with a thick quilting of blue satin, was held upon the point of a lance, and as many arrows shot at it as they would more willingly have aimed at the breast of its owner. The building was already smoking in fifty different places, and at some points the flames were already rising. Tyler, who had determined not to believe in Lancaster's absence, after lingering about the palace with the hope that the devouring element might force him from some hiding-place, accidentally found himself in the chapel close to the sanctuary, and just at the opportune moment to detect a sacrilegious hand removing a massive gold candlestick from the altar.

"Infidel! devil!" shouted Tyler, springing over the railing of the sanctuary, and raising his clenched fist: the candlestick fell from the grasp of the delinquent, and he reeled against the altar with the force of the blow. "What!" continued Tyler, aghast, "can it be Jack Straw?"

"Yes, it is," replied Oakley, fiercely, in some measure recovering from his confusion, and from the effects of the blow, "and, by the green wax! a strange way you have of claiming acquaintance—what did you think, Tyler, I was going to do with the candlestick? Will not the Commons have churches of their own, when they obtain their rights, and would it not be a triumph over Lancaster, to have these brave candlesticks gracing our altars."

Tyler had turned away while Black Jack was speaking, but suddenly stopping, turned abruptly round, and looking full at him—

"I'll tell you, Jack Straw," said he, "were it not for my respect for father John, I would have every door of this chapel fastened up, and then the flames that are already crackling the painted windows yonder, would just give you time to say a paternoster and an ave, before they cheated the gibbet of its due! but, as it is, let him who put you over the Essex men look to you, but, by my faith," he added, stamping his foot against the pavement, and speaking quicker, "if you do not instantly leave this place, all the monks that ever told a bead shall not save you!"

It was yet possible for Oakley to feel shame, and it was not entirely with rage, that his whole body at this moment trembled. He looked at the smith as he spoke, and half drew a dagger from his bosom, and, an indifferent spectator, regarding the two—Oakley still standing on the upper step of the altar, and Tyler, at a dozen paces down the centre aisle—would have thought that there could have existed but little odds between the physical power of the men; but Oakley, although he ground his teeth, and felt almost suffocated, had too much prudence to expose his gross enervated body to the muscular arm of the vigorous smith. Therefore, assuming an indignation of a very different character from his real feelings, he said, as he stepped from the altar into the nave of the chapel,

"I don't understand your language, Master Tyler—am not I a leader?—Does not the prophet know me, and trust me?"

"By St. Nicholas! the prophet does not know you! Do you think he would have trusted you, if he had thought you would have skulked into a chapel to steal the very candlesticks from the holy altar!"

An execration passed between Oakley's teeth—he sprang upon Tyler, and had not the smith dexterously raised his left arm and arrested the blow, Black Jack's dagger would have been buried in his bosom.

"That for ye, coward," said Tyler, striking him with the flat side of his bared weapon. Oakley aimed another thrust which was again turned aside, and the smith, now flinging down his sword, seized upon his right hand and wrenched the dagger from its grasp. After a short struggle, Oakley fell heavily on the pavement with the blood streaming from his mouth and nostrils.

"Lie there, for a dog—to strike at a man with a dagger!" said Tyler, as he took up his sword, and muttering something about "if it was not for the sake of the prophet," strode hastily away. And there was little time for delay; the atmosphere of the place was becoming quite insupportable, and the flames were spreading with such rapidity, that the smith, half stupified and scorching, had enough to do to escape from the mischief he had kindled.

That afternoon, Richard was standing on a turret of the fortress, looking at the column of flame which still rose brightly from Lancaster palace, even above the heavy smoke and occasional sparklings which told elsewhere of the whereabout of the incendiaries.

"Our cousin will have to crave hospitality, when he returns home," said Richard, addressing the Earl of Oxford, who stood beside him.

"The knaves have been merry on their march," replied Oxford. "Does your grace see the bonfires they have lit yonder?" and he pointed towards the north.

"By my faith, it is more than provoking to see the audacity of the kerns. Think you not," added Richard, after pausing a moment, "that if that monk was brought forth, and his head laid on a block, some terms might be made with the rebels. Do you see," continued the king, as they descended to the battlements, "they are bringing huge beams towards the drawbridge."

It indeed seemed evident that some bold measure was contemplated, and Richard's suggestion respecting the monk was about to be acted upon, with only a prudent hint from Sir Robert Hales not to provoke the Commons to desperation, when De Boteler's page approached his master.

The baron was standing apart from the other nobles, scanning, with a gloomy countenance, the dark undulating mass below. Once he could have sworn that Stephen Holgrave stood upon the verge of the ditch before him, but if it was he, he stood but an instant, and then was lost amidst the multitude. This circumstance gave a new turn to De Boteler's meditations; he thought too of the monk of Winchcombe Abbey—this John Ball, who was styled the prophet; and it seemed to be no less true than strange, that the germ of all this wide-spreading disorder had sprung from his own soil. So much, in fact, was he absorbed in these ideas, that he actually started when his page, who had been for the space of a minute endeavouring to draw his attention by repeated obeisances, ventured to pronounce his name in rather a high key, as he presented to him an arrow which had been found sticking in the door-post of the building in which father John was confined. "And this was shot from the river?" asked De Boteler, as he received the arrow and unrolled a parchment wrapped round it.

"Yes, my lord."

"Tell Calverley to come hither directly."

The page withdrew, and De Boteler, after perusing the parchment, presented it to Richard. It ran thus: "A retainer of the Lord de Boteler, will come, unarmed and alone, beneath the southern battlements, at ten o'clock. He is a leader of the commons, but, being touched with remorse, he will, if admitted before the king in council, disclose all the secrets of the rebels."

"Know you any retainer of yours who could have written this?"

"My steward, who approaches, can better answer the question, your highness," returned the baron.

The parchment being handed to Calverley, he instantly recognized the hand, and, in answer to De Boteler's question, replied—

"This is the handwriting of a retainer called Oakley."

"Do you know the man?"

"Yes, my lord."

Calverley then retired, and those whom the matter concerned, withdrew to an apartment, and gave their opinions according to the view in which the thing appeared to them.

That it was a stratagem to gain entrance to the Tower, was the opinion of several, but, after much discussion, it was decided that the man should be admitted, and that the monk should be exhibited merely to intimidate the rebels, until the result of this promised communication should be known.

About ten, a small boat was observed to approach the southern walls of the fortress. A man stepped from it and was permitted to ascend the terrace, and Calverley, who was standing there, challenged the stranger.

The steward clapped his hands, and immediately the bows of a hundred archers stationed around, were unbent, and he addressed Oakley as follows:

"It was you who shot the arrow?"

"Yes."

"Are you a leader, Oakley?"

"I was a leader," returned Oakley, gloomily.

"It was well that I was here to recognize your writing."

"Where there is a will there is a way, steward, and I should have found means of getting revenge even if you had kept safe at Sudley."

"Is it for revenge, Oakley, or for gold?"

"I tell you Master Calverley, it is revenge," said Black Jack, stopping short, as they were crossing the court-yard, "It is revenge! When I joined the commons I swore I would not betray them, and I would not—betray them for gold did you say?—listen—I had gold—aye gold enough, to have kept me an honest man all the days of my life, after this rising, and that—that blacksmith, who killed the baron's retainer—"

"Turner! what of him?"

But Oakley went on without heeding the interruption. "What was it to the knave whether I or the flames had them—and to be cuffed and threatened!—but the gibbet shall not be cheated of him. Do you know they threw Harvey into the flames—I heard the shrieks of the wretch, but I could not help him, though I knew my treasure was burning with him! for I was crawling, all but suffocated, and seeking for an outlet towards the river. I heard the cry, but for an instant, and then nothing, through the long passage but the rush and the roar of the flames."

"Then the gold you speak of was lost?"

"Yes, by the green wax! it was. If I had only been wise enough to have kept the bag myself, poor Harvey might have been alive, and I should not have done what I am going to do this night. No;—I should only have cursed the smith and forsworn the Commons, and made the best of my way to where I could have turned the gold and the gems into hard coin. Is my lord De Boteler here?"

"Yes."

"Then, master Calverley, although, as I have said before, it is to revenge myself, you must tell the baron that the king must not expect to have my assistance in betraying the Commons without paying for it."

"My lord will not see you but in the presence of the council."

"Not see me! then, by the green wax! I may be cheated; for one can hardly ask the king for money to his face."

"The baron has pledged himself that, if your intelligence and services are such as you hinted at, you may claim your own reward."

"May I?—then John Oakley will be no niggard," his countenance losing much of the gloomy ferocity it had been marked with. "But, steward," he added, as they walked through the building, "the smoke and the flame are even now in my throat;—you must give me wine, or I shall not be able to speak a word."

De Boteler was instantly acquainted with Oakley's arrival, and the council assembled, impressed with the importance of detaching so influential a leader from the Commons. Indeed, energy had given place to indecision, at a moment that required prompt measures. Tyler had, but an hour before, sent an intimation, that, if the prophet was not released in twenty-four hours, the city would be fired, and the Tower assaulted: and, even at the moment when the members of the council were entering the chamber, the air was rent with the shouts of the Commons on Tower-hill and Smithfield, as some skilful artizans among their body had nearly matured some machines for facilitating the attack. Symptoms of panic or indifference had been also manifested among those who guarded the Tower. The strange stories whispered of Ball, his prophecies, and his calm bearing while confined in his dungeon, with his oft repeated assertions of being liberated by the Commons, were calculated, in such an age, to fill their minds with the belief that he was, in truth, a prophet, and one whom it would be impiety to meddle with.

After Richard, surrounded by the lords, had taken his seat at the table, Black Jack was introduced by De Boteler as the writer of the scroll.

"You are a leader of the rebels?" interrogated Sudbury.

"I am, your grace," replied Oakley.

"Which division of the kerns do you command?"

"The commons of Essex."

"What! all?" interrupted Richard.

"My liege, I am leader of fifty thousand men."

"Then what is the design of this rising?" again asked Sudbury.

"To free the bond—to acquire land at a low rent—to be at liberty to buy and sell in all cities and towns, without toll or interruption;—and lastly, to obtain a pardon for this insurrection."

"By my faith!" said Sir Robert Hales, "these are bold demands, which the sword alone must decide."

"Peace! Sir Robert," said Sudbury.—"What have you to suggest which may benefit the realm, sir leader?" he continued.

"Ere I say more," said Oakley, falling on his knees before Richard, "I crave a general pardon, not only for myself, as leader in this rising, but for all other trespasses by me committed."

"Ha, ha, ha," laughed Richard, "the knave is wisely valiant! He has an especial care of his own neck. Rise—thou art pardoned."

"But, my liege," continued Oakley, still kneeling, "there is one confined in this fortress for whom I would solicit freedom."

"To whom do you allude, knave?" asked Sudbury, with some surprise.

"To father John Ball."

"To father John Ball! to that son of satan—that vile author of all this confusion. Be content with saving your own head."

"Then, my lord archbishop," said Oakley, rising, "if a hair of that monk's head is touched, I will not answer for the result. Wat Tyler, my lords, is a man of desperate purpose. He has sworn before the multitude, that, if the prophet is not freed before the twenty-four hours, the heads of all these noble peers around me shall answer for it.—Nay more——"

"Hold, kern," interrupted Richard fiercely; "we despise the threat."

"But, my liege," persisted Jack Straw, "let the council consider the danger of the delay. I have reason to know, that those you reckon upon to oppose an entrance here are not to be trusted: the prophet has worked wonders, even within the fortress."

"How know you that?" asked Richard, with surprise.

"My liege, there are disciples of John Ball in the Tower—aye, even among the royal household!"

"'Tis false!" returned Richard, angrily—"who are they?—confess! confess!"

"No, my liege—though I have renounced the confederates, I cannot betray them; but if the monk is freed, I will, at the risk of my head, quell the rising, without blood."

"How?—speak!" said Sudbury.

"My lord, you have heard the conditions, which have been drawn up by John Ball himself. I would humbly suggest, that charters of freedom should be granted under the royal hand and seal: if it so please you—they can be revoked at leisure. The Essex men will be content with these charters and a general pardon—but the prophet must be first set at liberty: he abhors bloodshed, will curb this Tyler, and thus this formidable array may be dispersed. I would further suggest, that your highness, attended by a slight retinue, and unarmed, should repair to-morrow to Mile-end, where I shall have assembled the leaders, and will sound them on these points. The charters may then be read, and, my lords, you are aware, that even the royal franchise cannot destroy your right over the bondmen, without an act of parliament."

While Oakley was speaking, all eyes were fixed upon him with something of astonishment at advice that would not come amiss from the sagest among them.

"Retire," said Sudbury; "we shall consider the matter."

"My lords," said the wily prelate, in a solemn tone, "this man has anticipated my counsel. It may not be safe to meddle with this Ball for the present. The charters may be made out, and, of course revoked hereafter; but I like not your grace perilling your person, alone and unguarded, among the kerns."

"My lord," said Richard, "we are resolved to meet these bold men, and hear what they have to say. Shall you attend us, my lord of Canterbury?"

"I would fain be excused, with your highness's leave. A dignitary of holy church should not degrade his calling by communing with the scum of the land!"

"Then, my lord bishop, let who will stay, we go. My lords, will you attend your king?"

"To death, my liege," said De Boteler and the rest.

"'Tis well—let this man be recalled."

"Tell the commons, that King Richard will see them to-morrow," said De Boteler.

"Then, my lord, the monk is to be freed?" asked Oakley.

"His life is spared till after the conference," said the treasurer; "his freedom depends upon the disbanding of the Essex men."

Oakley was then led forth from the council by De Boteler, who pledged himself that the monk should not be harmed; and, after receiving, from Calverley, a part of the stipulated reward, he retired from the fortress by the way he had entered.

CHAPTER VII.

The Tower clock had just struck ten, and father John was reading a Latin manuscript by the light of a small lamp, when the door of his prison opened, and the glare of a large wax-light, preceding a lady, almost dazzled his eyes. The torch-bearer, placing the torch in a convenient position against the wall, retired, leaving the monk and the lady alone.

There was but one seat in the dungeon, so John Ball arose, and presenting his stool to his visitor, seated himself on the bundle of straw which composed his bed.

Isabella de Boteler placed the stool so that her own face might be in the shade, at the same time that the light played full upon that of the monk. They sat an instant silent; and as the baroness bent her eyes upon the father, she saw, in the deep marks on the forehead, and in the changed hue of his circling hair, that he had paid the price of strong excitement; but yet she almost marvelled if the placid countenance she now gazed upon could belong to one who had dared and done so much. At length she spoke.

"You know me, father John?"

"Yes, lady."

"Know you why I have visited this cell?"

"It is not for me to speak of what is passing in the heart of another."

"Tell me, monk," asked Isabella, "did you see the multitude who filled the open space when you were led upon the battlements this afternoon?"

"I did, lady, and my heart rejoiced—even as a father at sight of his children!" a slight tinge passing over his cheek.

"You speak too boldly," said Isabella, with some impatience; "but if your eyes were gladdened with what they saw on Tower-hill to-day, they will not be gladdened at the things that will meet their glance to-morrow!" She hesitated, and then went on rather hurriedly: "When you are led forth again, the rebellious commons will be dispersed, and the block will be standing ready for your own head!"

"Man is but dust, and a breath may blow him away. I was born, Lady de Boteler, but to die; and there is not a morning, since I have abided in this dungeon, but, as I have watched the first rays of light stream through yonder grating, I have thought, shall my eyes behold the departing day! and, as well as a sinner may do, I prepared for my end. But, lady, are the thousands but as one man?—and think you that the spirit which has gone forth——"

"I tell you, father John," interrupted Isabella, "that even at this moment a leader of the rebels is before the council—and ere to-morrow's sun shall set, the turbulent villeins will be either hanged or driven back—and you will be beheaded!"

"Is the betrayer a captive?" asked the monk; and he fixed an anxious searching glance on the baroness.

"No, the man came voluntarily——"

Isabella paused. The monk, however, did not reply; but she inferred, from a sort of quivering of the upper lip, that her information affected him more deeply than he chose to tell. She passed one hand across her forehead, and then, clasping them both, and resting them upon her knees, looked earnestly at John Ball, and said, impressively—

"The rebels are betrayed, and you are condemned; but, if you will hearken to my request, this hour shall free you from prison:—Will you, will you tell me of my lost child?"

"Lady," said the monk in a stern voice, "think you so meanly of John Ball that he would do for a bribe what he would not do for justice sake? The time was when ye might have known, but ye took not counsel——"

"Then he lives!" said Isabella, in a suppressed shriek; and she bent her head on her bosom, and covered her face with her hands.

For a minute she sat thus, and then slowly removing her hands, and raising up her pale and tearful face, said tremulously, and in so low a tone as to be scarcely audible, "My child then does live?"

"Baroness de Boteler, I said not that your child lives."

"Oh, father John, torture me not so," said she, with hysterical eagerness. "Oh, tell me not that I have a living son, and then bid me look upon the grave. Oh, lead me to my child, or even give assurance that he lives, and you shall be freed; and if he whom I suspect did the deed, he shall be pardoned and enriched."

"The Baroness of Sudley," replied father John, "does not know the poor Cistercian monk. Were the bolts withdrawn, and that door left swinging upon its hinges, I would not leave my prison until the voice of the people bade me come forth. And know ye not, lady, that with what measure ye mete to others, the same shall be meted to you again. Did ye deal out mercy to Edith Holgrave? Did ye deal mercifully by Stephen, when ye gave him bondage as a reward for true faith—and then stripes and a prison? And, as for me,—can ye expect that the bondman's son is to set a pattern of mercy and forgiveness to the noble and the free?"

"I was right, then," said the baroness, in a more composed tone—"it was Stephen Holgrave who did the deed; but father, if you spurn my offers, at least answer me yes or no to one question—Am I the mother of a living son?"

It was in vain, however, that Isabella promised, implored, and even threatened; John Ball would not vouchsafe another reply, and the baroness, at length, wearied and indignant, arose, turned abruptly from the monk, and summoning her attendants, hastened forth to her own apartment, and there, throwing herself in a chair, wept and sobbed until her heart was in a measure relieved.

That night was a period of strong excitement within and without the Tower. Without, the moonlight displayed an immense mass of dark bodies stretched on the ground, and slumbering in the open air; while others, of more active minds, moved to and fro, like evil spirits in the night. Beyond, in the adjacent streets, occasionally rose the drunken shouts of rioters, or the shrieks of some unhappy foreigner, who was slaughtered by the ignorant and ferocious multitude for the crime of being unable to speak English. Within the Tower there was as little of repose; there were the fears of many noble hearts, lest the renegade leader might not be as influential as he vaunted, concealed beneath the semblance of contemptuous pride or affected defiance;—then there were the sanguine hopes of the youthful Richard;—the maternal fears of his mother;—the anxious feelings of the baroness;—the troubled thoughts and misgivings of John Ball;—and the strange whisperings among the men at arms and archers, who all "did quail in stomach," we may suppose, at the novel combination of a prophet in prison, and an armed populace besieging the fortress.

The next morning Richard, without breastplate or helmet, but simply attired in a saffron-coloured tunic and an azure mantle lined with ermine (on which opened pea-shells were wrought in their natural green, but with the peas represented by large pearls), a cap of azure velvet, edged also with ermine, and with no other weapon but a small dagger in the girdle of his tunic, prepared himself to meet his rebellious subjects. The idea of letting down the drawbridge, and passing by it from the Tower, was too imprudent a thing to be thought of, and Richard, therefore, attended by De Boteler, Oxford, Warwick, Sir Aubrey de Vere, and a few others, were just about taking water, in order to pass a little way down the river, and then proceed to Mile-end on horseback, when the Princess Joan, attended by the Lady Warwick, joined the party, and intimated her intention of accompanying her son.

It was to little purpose that Richard expostulated; the fair Joan was resolved to share in whatever perils might befal her son. As they approached Mile-end, the princess started at the deafening clamour which arose from the multitude; some shouting for Richard as they saw him advance, and others vociferating as loudly that all should hold their peace until they knew what the king would grant. When the tumult had in some degree subsided, Sir Aubrey de Vere and Sir Robert Knowles rode forward in advance of the king, and approaching Jack Straw, who was also on horseback:—

"Sir leader," said De Vere, "we have come at the king's command to make known to these assembled Commons his grace's pleasure. Are ye willing to listen to the royal clemency?"

Leicester was not among the leaders, for, disgusted with Oakley's tardiness, he had about an hour before passed the city gates with a large body, to join Tyler. Jack Straw, therefore, had not him to contend with, and a flattering plausible speech in a few minutes procured attention to the following charter:—

"Richard, king of England and of France, doth greatly thank his good Commons, because they so greatly desire to see and hold him for their king; and doth pardon them all manner of trespasses, misprisions, and felonies done before this time, and willeth and commandeth, from henceforth, that every one hasten to his own dwelling, and set down all his grievances in writing, and send it unto him, and he will, by advice of his lawful lords and good council, provide such remedy as shall be profitable to him, to them, and to the whole realm."

"Ye may tell his grace," cried Rugge, "that I for one will never return to my dwelling until a charter is granted to make all cities free to buy and sell in."

"And shall we go back to our homes to be bondmen again?" burst in a wild cry from thousands.

At this moment a messenger rode up to Oakley, and, putting a letter into his hands, instantly retired.

"A message from the prophet!" cried Black Jack, as he glanced over the writing, and then read aloud, "John Ball greeteth Jack Straw, John Leicester, Ralph Rugge, and the other leaders, and also all the true commons assembled at Mile-end, and commandeth them that they listen to the voice of their anointed king, and hasten back to their own homes; and John Ball, who is now freed, will obtain from the royal hand, the charter of freedom, for the bond, and the redress of all the grievances that weigh down the free."

There was much murmuring and discontent at the tenor of this epistle; and but little disposition manifested to obey the mandate: but the example of their principal leader, Jack Straw, who instantly, as in obedience to the prophet's command, divested himself of his sword, and presented it to Sir Aubrey de Vere, intimating his submission to the king, occasioned a sort of general panic, or rather, a distrust of their own powers. This, added to the specious and equivocal promises of Richard, who now approached; and the persuasive eloquence of Oakley, operated so far on the credulous multitude, that the king, amidst a universal shout of "Long live the king of the Commons," turned his horse's head towards London, rejoicing in his heart that so far the rebels were dispersed.

But in this instance his exultation was of short duration, for one, who had leaped from the battlements of the Tower unheeded, and had swam along the river unharmed, approached Sir Robert Knowles, who was riding something in advance of the party, and with his saturated apparel bearing testimony to his assertions, announced the stunning intelligence that the Tower was at that moment in the possession of the commons. This brave defender of the fortress was Calverley.

There was a sudden halt at this intelligence, and many an exclamation at the presumption of the insolent commons. However, after some consultation, it was deemed most prudent to come as little as possible in collision with the rebels, but, under countenance of the mayor, to pass through the city, and then, as the most probable security, claim the hospitality of the worthy abbot of Westminster.

We shall leave Ring Richard with the fair Joan of Kent and the nobles, to pursue their journey to Westminster, while we give some idea of the means by which the commons, so soon after the departure of the king, became masters of the tower. The galleyman had been a resident in London for some years; and it will of course be inferred, that during this time he must have formed many acquaintances, which circumstance, indeed, had been of much avail in gaining admittance into the city, and now turned to as good account in effecting an entrance into the Tower.

It was about midnight that Wells, who had been thinking a great deal of the probability of gaining access to the fortress, went to the smith's quarters, and proposed to attempt an entrance. Tyler commended his devotion; and the galleyman, provided with a rope, to which an iron hook was affixed, and a flask or two of wine, dropped unobserved into the water. He swam on as softly as possible beneath the wall, and in the shadow cast by the moonlight. There was one part where he observed that an angle of the building cast a broad shade on the parapet; and here, without a moment's hesitation, he stopped, and throwing up the rope, the hook caught. Though encumbered by his wet apparel, he climbed up with the agility of a boy; but the instant his figure appeared above the wall, two men with drawn swords sprung forward.

"Hold there! I have brought ye a drop of wine."

At the first sound of his voice the weapons were lowered. "It was well that ye spoke, master vintner," said the men, taking each a flask of wine and draining its contents.

It so happened, that these men had a strong sympathy for the commons, and besides this, they had been much wrought upon by the stories, whether true or false, circulated through the Tower respecting Ball; and it did not require much persuasion to gain them over in assisting Wells's project. A female domestic belonging to the lieutenant, a sweetheart of one of those men, secreted Wells in an apartment in her master's house, and contrived to purloin the keys of the gates after Richard's departure. The galleyman, aided by a few daring disciples of the prophet, with whom he found means to communicate through the same female instrumentality, surprised the few who guarded the gate, and drawbridge; and the blast of a horn was the signal for the smith to advance. So suddenly was this feat accomplished, that the men at arms, who were scattered up and down the fortress, had not time to seize their weapons or oppose the thousands who, headed by Tyler and Holgrave, rushed forward, and entered the Tower. With exulting shouts the conquerors took possession of the building. Some made strict search for the members of the council; others, with blows and taunts, employed themselves in divesting the panic-struck soldiers of their arms; and others, the more numerous of the intruders, were intent only on forcing the wine-cellars, regardless of the threats and buffets of their leaders. But above all this wild clamour, arose the voice of Tyler, who strode rapidly on, like some demon of power, striking and reviling friend or foe who was unable to point out where the prophet was confined.

At length one of the keepers was seized, who conducted Tyler and Holgrave to his cell.

"Father John, you are free—the Tower is ours!" exclaimed Holgrave, flinging wide the massive door.

"And I am freed? and by the bond!" exclaimed the monk.

"Aye, father John, you are free," said Tyler. "We have found you at last; but, by St. Nicholas! we have had a long search. Hah!" as he glanced on the monk, "have the knaves chained you. Bear him forth, men of Kent—Wat Tyler himself will strike off those irons."

The monk was then conducted to the outer door of the prison. It would be in vain to paint the frantic joy of those without. Deafening shouts of "The prophet is free!" passed from mouth to mouth, and then came the rush to obtain a prayer or benediction.

"Back, men of Kent—back," vociferated Tyler;—and then arose the long wild shout as Tyler freed the monk from the last link of his bonds.

Just then a movement among the people was observed, and a man, hastily forcing his way through the yielding ranks, announced to the astonished smith, and yet more astonished monk, that Oakley had, by command of the prophet, made terms with the king, and that even now the Essex men had broke up their camp, and were marching homewards.

"And is this thy counsel, father John?" said Tyler, reproachfully: "but, by St. Nicholas! this robber of the high altar shall not depart scatheless. Kentish men!—my horse, my horse!" and he stamped his armed heels upon the pavement.

"Wat Tyler," returned the monk, sternly, "this is not my counsel—this, then, is the traitor!—but perhaps he has obtained the charters!"

"The charters, father John," responded Tyler, with a sneer: "aye, by St. Nicholas! he has got his charters in good broad pieces, I'll warrant!—My horse, Kentish men, I say!"

"Confound the whole rising, if he escapes me! Stephen Holgrave! as the father doesn't like me to go, tell Leicester to take a chosen body of the Kentish men; and, mark ye, he must catch that fiend, and bring him to the Tower, dead or alive!"

"Stephen Holgrave," said the monk, "let not one hair of his head be meddled with! And now, Wat Tyler, I enjoin thee to clear the fortress of those who have forgotten their duty—but slay not. I now go to the chapel, where I shall remain a short time in prayer." The monk then waved his hand, and drew his cowl closely over his brow, to hide from his gaze the evidences of debauchery he encountered at every step in his way to the chapel. The gutters and kennels ran with wine, and some, for want of vessels, were lying prostrate, lapping up the flowing beverage—some, entirely overpowered, were stretched across the doorways, and in the court-yards, serving as seats to others, who were, with wild oaths, passing round the goblet.

"And this is the first fruits of liberty," muttered the monk—"but no good can be had unalloyed with evil."

The chapel, during all the tumult, was unnoticed, probably less through respect for the place, than from neglect; and thither those who had most to fear from the people had hastened, expecting safety from the sacredness of the spot. Among the rest, or rather leading the way, went Sudbury, who was shortly afterwards joined by the constable and treasurer, on perceiving the commons in possession of the Tower.

In order to impress the place with a still greater degree of awe, Sudbury, with his attendant priests, had robed themselves, and commenced vespers.

Father John entered the chapel, and prostrating himself thrice at the door, arose, and silently advanced to the foot of the altar. Here he recognised the archbishop, and, checking his emotions, knelt in prayer, unnoticed till the service had concluded. In the midst of the sacred song, terror was depicted, more strongly than piety, in the faces of all the worshippers, save Sudbury; he seemed calm, except, indeed, when a shout from without caused an indignant frown to darken his brow.

The monk was at length perceived, for the treasurer, on raising his eyes, met the glance of father John. "My lord bishop," said he, "yonder stands the monk, John Ball!"

"And why not, my lord treasurer?" said father John, in a clear, full voice, his face, before so pale, glowing, and his frame trembling so much that he grasped a pillar for support; "this temple is open to all—the just as well as the unjust."

"Darest thou, rash man, to defile the holy place?—why art thou not in thy prison?" said Sudbury, whose glance fell proudly and scornfully on the monk.

"Simon Sudbury," answered Ball, with a look of equal defiance, and still deeper scorn—"my dungeon doors obeyed the spirit of the free; and God alone can judge who is defiled, or who is pure——"

"Away, degraded priest!" answered Sudbury, fiercely, and he raised his arm, and pointed towards the door.

"Simon Sudbury," retorted the monk, "if, as thou sayest, I am degraded, to thee no authority is due—if I am still a chosen one of the Lord, methinks I am free to enter and worship in his temple: but," he continued, elevating his tones to their fullest compass, "whether I am a priest or no priest, yet here I am powerful, and, proud prelate, I, in my turn, command thee hence!"

"And is this the way, misguided zealot?" cried Sudbury—"is this the way that you preach peace? What hast thou done with the royal Richard?"

"The royal Richard," returned father John, exultingly, "is but king of the commons; but the royal Richard is well served," he added, sarcastically, "by Simon Sudbury and the nobles, who leave their prince, in his peril, to hide them in holes and sanctuaries!"

The treasurer turned pale, and hung his head.

"Aye, Sir Treasurer, thou hast reason to sink thy head! Thy odious poll-tax has mingled vengeance—nay, blood—with the cry of the bond."

"It is thou, foul spirit!" cried Sudbury, descending a step from the altar—"it is thou who hast stimulated the thirst for blood, and hast brought the royal prerogative and holy church into contempt—away! ere, with my own hands, I drive thee hence!"

"And away, ill-starred prelate!—away (as I prophesy) to thy doom!" returned the monk, advancing a step towards Sudbury; "aye—aye—away! and——"

The monk did not finish the sentence, for the door of the chapel was for a moment darkened with the shadows of two men, who were just entering; and father John, wrapping his cloak around him, walked rapidly towards them, and, with a single adjuration of "Friend Tyler, spare!" issued forth from the chapel.

Tyler, in his haste to seize the archbishop, stumbled over a lance which one of those who had fled with the prelate had dropped.

"Confound the hand that dropped thee!" muttered the smith, as he sprang on his feet. "John Kirkby, is not that Sudbury yonder? It is he, by St. Nicholas! Seize that babbling old man!—he with the mitre!" They had now arrived at the altar.

"Not one step further, kern!" cried the treasurer, seizing his sword, and placing himself in front of Sudbury.

A shriek from the women who had clustered around the treasurer, made matters worse; for, attracted by the noise, the chapel was instantly filled with armed men.

"Sir Treasurer, think you to scare him who leads the Kentish men? Kirkby, drag the antichrist from the altar!"

Kirkby advanced a few paces, but a glance from Sudbury seemed to unnerve him, and he stood for a moment irresolute.

"There, chicken-hearted carle!" cried the smith, felling Kirkby to the ground with his mailed hand—"there, dog!—Wat Tyler must be obeyed! And now, Simon Sudbury, take off that blessed mitre, which ill befits thee, and come forth; for, by my faith and the blessed St. Nicholas! in one hour hence, thy head shall be stuck on London bridge, wrapped up in the hood of thy own mantle!" And with this, Tyler placed his foot on the first step of the altar.

Another shriek from the terrified females but seemed to augment his fury; and the treasurer, after a few vain parries, fell stunned and bleeding by a powerful blow of the smith's axe.

"Lie there, dog!—there goes one of the accursed council!" and, springing up the step with a giant grasp, he seized the mitred chancellor by the neck, and dragged him forth into the centre of the church.

"Hold, impious man!" said the undaunted prelate; "the noblest and gentlest heart in England lies bleeding and gasping on the high altar in defence of the Lord's anointed; but even the blood of the anointed shall stain the sanctuary ere He quail before man in his master's temple!"

"By St. Nicholas! then you shall be cheated of dying here," said Tyler; and, snatching the mitre from the grey locks it covered, he threw it to Holgrave. "There, Stephen, that shall soon sit upon a worthier head: and now, sir priest, or sir prelate, be quick with an ave—for the block is ready and the axe sharp. And you, Kirkby, (who sullenly stood by), mind and lift up that knave yonder," pointing to the treasurer; "for, by St. Nicholas! he, too, shall die!" and the treasurer, faint and almost lifeless, was, with Sudbury, borne away to Tower-hill.

John Ball, in the meantime, had passed on from the chapel, heedless of the greetings that met him at every step, and of the riot and confusion that would, at another time, have called forth his rebuke. At length, as he passed the royal apartments, he heard sounds that seemed to recal him to himself—they were the shrieks of woman! Throwing back his cowl, and casting an indignant glance at Kirkby, who had just emerged from the building, he said—

"What dost thou here, John Kirkby, and why these screams?"

Kirkby muttered something of the council.

"And darest thou, John Kirkby, a leader of the people—darest thou be the foremost to set at nought my commands? I repent me of my endeavours to right the oppressed, for, alas! they have been like stray sheep without the care of the shepherd!—and now, that the shepherd has sought and is among them, they heed not his voice."

But the shrieks were again repeated, and father John commanding Kirkby to follow, passed rapidly through the apartments, where every thing presented the trace of the spoiler. In many of them were stretched, or rather huddled together, peasants in the last stage of inebriety, some on the beds, and others on the carpets; and the shattered garniture of this abode of Richard and his fair mother, served but to mark its recent costliness and splendour.

The monk groaned deeply as he observed four or five men hewing with axes at a door which had resisted their first efforts to burst open; while two others were struggling with a man who seemed to be disputing their entrance; and a few paces from these lay, on a richly-worked counterpane, an infant, whose shrill cries mingled with the strife.

The flashing eye and indignant rebuke of the monk, on beholding this scene, unnerved the fear-stricken peasants.

"It is the prophet himself!" burst from the lips of the men, dropping their weapons and looking abashed.

"Aye, it is he whom you say is the prophet," cried father John, "and accurst, say I, be the house-breakers!" his eye fell on Ralph Rugge. "What, another of the chosen!" he added, with a withering glance. "All, all are unworthy—my heart is sick!" and he turned away and covered his face with his hands.

"Father John, you have come in good time," said the galleyman, who now approached the monk, and who was he that had been contesting with the two men; "for, good father, if my ears serve me rightly, within that berth is the Lady de Boteler!"

The monk started.

"And where is her lord?"

"I know not, unless he be with the king at Mile-end."

"Lady de Boteler," cried the monk, "if thou art within come forth!" and Isabella, at his voice, at once threw open the door.

"Lady," said Ball, who, in a low voice, had exchanged a few words with Wells, "here thou art no longer safe. Conduct this lady, my friend, to the abbey of Westminster," addressing Wells, "and encounter not those who might, unchecked by me, commit further outrage. Take a boat from the water-side—that way is yet open. Farewell, lady, I must hence;—for even Simon Sudbury, who made John Ball what he is now, may be in peril, and it is for the Lord alone to smite.—I seek not the brand to right me!"

The idea of Sudbury's danger had been confirmed by the behaviour of those whom his presence had arrested in guilt; and the monk, whose sympathies were thus awakened, hastened away, and gained the court-yard. Here his ears were assailed by a loud shout, which was repeated thrice, and which, he conjectured, proceeded from Tower-hill.

The monk hurried to the northern battlements, and stood, for an instant, gazing intently on the confusion which filled the vast area before him. At one point, and towards the centre, he observed a circle formed of some mounted commons, and he perceived a man in the midst in a kneeling posture. His voice now arose deep and startling as he exclaimed, "Wat Tyler, I adjure thee, touch not the prelate—touch not the Lord's anointed! Forbear! forbear!" and then, with an agility which, since his boyhood, he had not probably before exerted, he descended the platform, hurried through the fortress, crossed the moat, and then striding rapidly through the people, who made way as he approached, stood in the centre of that circle towards which his fears had impelled him.

A glance informed father John that vengeance was swifter in the race than mercy, and his eye now fiercely sought for the guilty author of the drama. He stood a few paces to the right, leaning on the instrument of crime, and his eyes rivetted on the prophet. Upon his dark countenance was marked triumph and agitation, for he feared the storm which he expected was now to burst upon him. But whether it was the spectacle which the monk's first gaze encountered, or that indignation, too deep for utterance, overpowered his energies, cannot be said; but, after regarding Tyler with a look which seemed to combine every thing of horror and disgust, father John turned away, and was quickly lost in the multitude.

Those who witnessed this brief interview saw enough to indicate, in that glance cast on their leader, the monk's displeasure at the deed; and Tyler himself well understood the silent rebuke, for, turning to Kirkby, he said, in a bitter, though subdued tone,—

"John Kirkby, the father is angry, and this is all one gets for one's pains. Now that the mitre waits for his head, he will not put it on;—and did not that traitor Jack Straw often say the father wished for Sudbury's place; and though I hate bishops, I would not mind seeing him one. But, by St. Nicholas! he added fiercely, no more bishops for Wat Tyler—and——"

The smith was here interrupted by a messenger from Richard, with a proclamation for the Commons to meet him the next morning in Smithfield, when they should have every thing they required.

"Ye may tell King Richard that the Commons will meet him; but mind ye, and tell him to have no lords, nor men of law, nor any of that brood of bishops with him, if he wishes them to wear their heads;—mind ye that, sir pursuivant."

Tyler then retired, but first strictly enjoining, on pain of death, that the bodies of the archbishop and treasurer should not be removed nor interred.

When night came, and father John did not return, the feeling became general that, disgusted with the spectacle of the morning, he had abandoned the cause; and it became apparent, even to Tyler himself, that some decisive step must at once be taken, before those whom the monk's eloquence had aroused and united, and his promises inspired with a confidence of success, should, deprived of his guidance, return home in despair.

The smith was as great an enthusiast for the freedom of the bond as the monk himself; but his mode of obtaining it did not coincide with the peaceful bent of the father. Tyler's plan was bold and sanguinary,—the monk's, intimidation without violence; and energetic and accustomed as was the smith to act on his own impulses, yet, even in his fiercest moods, he willingly yielded obedience to the monk's suggestions. Indeed, he had long been accustomed to pay that deference which father John's mildness had, as it were, extorted; and the circumstance of their first connection, from the liberation of Ball from the dungeon of Sudley to the present period, had so increased his affection and veneration, that now, deprived of this pillar of support, he felt a loneliness and dejection which nothing around could dispel.

The morning was just breaking; and the moon shone full and bright on the surrounding buildings, on the trees, on the tents that marked the lodgement of the leaders, and on the groups that lay tentless on the ground, buried in profound sleep. All within the boundary of the rude encampment were reposing in the confidence of power, without guard or centinel, save one, whose eye-lids closed not. Alone, in the corner of a tent, which stood in the centre of the encampment, sat Tyler, whom the moonbeams revealed, as they streamed through a rent in the canvass. His right hand clenched, and his elbow resting against the side of the tent, supported his head; and in his left he held a small gold crucifix, on which he was gazing, not with a countenance on which pity might be traced, but rather a look in which sorrow and despair seemed blended.

"Aye, it was his gift," said he. "However bad, father John, you may think Wat Turner, he cares for this holy relic more than the life his mother gave him. And was it not because he thought to place you above them all that Sudbury lies on Tower-hill? And did he not take off that mitre with his own hands?—and did not his heart beat joyfully when he saw you come, that he might put it on your head? And now you leave him with the work half done. And the poor commons, too, must go back again to be kicked and cuffed, and to bear the load heavier than before. Aye, father John—and did he not snatch you from the stripes and the bolt?—and were not his hands red with blood that blessed night?—and was he not forced to fly like a felon, and take this accursed name of Tyler?" Here his agitation increased, and his articulation became indistinct and husky; he started up, thrust the crucifix into his bosom, and paced the tent for a few minutes in silence; then looked upon the sleeping mass, and resumed, as he re-entered the tent—

"Aye, ye may soon sleep your last sleep. They will have at ye in the morning; for the proud barons are gathering their might; but, by St. Nicholas! I may do something yet. Yes, there will be more blood—I see it;—I must have an order to behead the lords; and then, if Richard will be king of the commons, and no more lords or bondage, father John himself could not wish for more."

He, at length, became somewhat composed, and threw himself upon the floor, to get a few hours' rest.

At an early hour, he prepared to redeem his pledge of meeting the king; and the Commons, as they arrived, commenced forming in order of battle along the west side of Smithfield. When marshalled, they presented the appearance of a wedge, broad behind and gradually diminishing to the front; the banner of St. George was in the centre of the line, supported by the men at arms; while on either side were disposed the slingers and archers.

In this order, they awaited the king; and, in the interim, Tyler employed himself in riding up and down the ranks, exhorting the people to be firm, and to take care that they should not be cheated out of their rights by king or priest. Indeed, his whole demeanour supported the night's resolve, and vindicated a determination of purpose which imparted itself to the thousands who cheered him at every step in his progress.

We must premise, before describing the coming interview, that the Tower was again occupied by Richard. A sudden attack during the night surprised those left in possession; and here the assiduity of the lords had collected a strong force, by means of the communication from the river; and they determined on giving battle to the commons, should they refuse to return home on obtaining the charters. A large body of the citizens had, by previous concert, thrown themselves unobserved into the priory of Bartholomew, in order to operate, under William Walworth, with those in the Tower.

Precisely at ten o'clock, Richard, without pomp or circumstance, issued from the Tower, attended only by De Boteler, Warwick, and a few others, Sir John Newton bearing the sword of state. He was apparelled in the same manner as when he appeared at Mile-end, when he went forth to meet the Essex men, and with that unsuspecting confidence that marked his early years, entered Smithfield with as much gaiety as if he were going to a banquet. Sir Robert Knowles and his men at arms had orders to follow at some distance, but on no account to show themselves until there might be occasion. After surveying the formidable array, which stretched far away into the fields, and listening to De Boteler's remarks on their clever arrangement, either for attack or defence,—

"By my faith! my lord," said Richard eagerly, "these knaves will not be trifled with; but lo! who have we here?" as he perceived a single horseman gallop forward from the centre.

"My liege," said Newton, as the horseman neared the royal train, "that man is Wat Tyler."

"And if my eyes do not mislead me," said De Boteler, looking searchingly on Tyler, "I know the graceless kerne."

Newton then pushed forward to open the conference, and said, as he joined the smith—

"My lord, the king, wishes to hear you on the alleged grievances."

"And who are you, knave, that dare ride in presence of Wat Tyler?"

"I am, Sir John Newton, the king's sword-bearer," returned Newton, proudly.

"Then, by St. Nicholas! none shall ride here but Richard and myself. Come down, braggart," and he seized the bridle of Newton's horse.

Richard now rode up, perceiving the peril of his attendant.

"And what would ye have, Wat Tyler?" asked Richard, in a conciliatory tone.

"Sir King, I would first have this knave well whipped for riding in my presence."

"But what would ye have put in your own charter, Wat?" again asked Richard, endeavouring to draw the smith's attention from Newton.

Tyler, however, was more intent on unhorsing the sword-bearer, than listening to the king, for he now grasped Newton by the shoulder, and endeavoured to drag him from his horse.

During this altercation, a small body of archers had advanced from the lines to within bow-shot of the disputants.

Richard observed the movement, and beckoned to Sir John to dismount, who, choking with mortification, surrendered the animal to a man whom Tyler had beckoned to approach.

"And that dagger too, surly knave," said the smith. "How dare ye come here armed. Go to, thou art a knave!"

Richard could contain himself no longer. "Thou liest! sir leader," said he, reining back his charger, whose bridle had come in contact with the head of the smith's horse.

"The dagger, knave," muttered Tyler, still intent on humbling the proud sword-bearer, and raising his axe in a menacing attitude.

The dagger, like the horse, was then relinquished, and Tyler, with a glance of triumph, turned to Richard, and continued—

"King Richard, I'll now tell you what the commons want: first, I want a commission to behead all the lords, and those who began the poll-tax—I would have no more lords nor bishops, nor lawyers, nor bondage; and I would have you king of the commons—and now sir king, be quick with the charter, for, by St. Nicholas! I shall not eat or drink till every mother's son of those yonder, can go and come, when and where they will; aye, and be as proud as the proudest of ye."

"These are bold demands, Wat Tyler," returned Richard, his cheek glowing with indignation, "and more, by my faith, than we shall listen to."

Tyler, during the colloquy, had seized his axe, and though it was not raised above his saddle-bow, yet the convulsive motion of the hand as it grasped the weapon, might seem to indicate danger to the young king. Richard was now surrounded by his retinue, among whom was William Walworth, the Lord Mayor, who had crossed over from the priory on perceiving his peril.

"Sir leader," cried the mayor, boiling with rage, and approaching Tyler, "ride not so close to his grace, it ill becomes such as you to ride or speak so in the king's presence."

"Ha! and do ye say so?" returned Tyler, elevating his arm, "take ye that for your insolence:" but the blow, which would have deprived the worthy citizens of their sturdy chief, was arrested, ere it descended, by Warwick, who seized the uplifted weapon from behind, and the next moment the smith received a stunning blow from William Walworth's mace; then, as the reins dropped from his hands, a thrust from De Boteler's sword, ended the cares of one who, doubtless, had he lived at a later period, might, in the cause for which he bled, have been a Tell or a Hofer.

A thousand spears, and as many shafts, prepared to avenge his fall, and an instant more of indecision, and Richard would have been spared the humiliation of after years; but a bold inspiration at this critical moment, hurried him fearlessly forward into the midst of the commons.

"What, my lieges!" he exclaimed, with a smile of confidence, "are ye angry that your leader is slain? Richard of England shall supply his place—follow me to the field and ye shall have what ye desire!"

And, incredible as it may seem, the lances were lowered, the bows relaxed, and those who so lately had vowed to live or die with Tyler, followed the king to St. George's fields, rending the air with cries of "Long live King Richard!"

The men-at-arms, headed by Sir Robert Knowles, and the citizens, under Walworth, hurried after the commons, and when the charter had been granted, and the people were dispersing, suddenly, and treacherously, fell upon them.

Unprepared for such an attack, and now no longer formidable, the insurgents, panic struck, fled on all sides; and, after a brief struggle, many of the leaders were cut down or secured. Numbers of the people perished, and Richard once more entered the Tower in triumph.

It is almost useless to add, that the charters were soon after revoked, and thus failed the first struggle of the British helots.

CHAPTER VIII.

When the commons, trusting to a deceitful promise, had lost that unity which could alone render them formidable, it was no matter of difficulty to secure Holgrave, as he rushed forward to revenge Tyler's death. Besides his being a leader, a reward from the baron was offered for his capture; and it was to little purpose that he fought and struggled against a body which attacked him on every side; he was overpowered, and thrown into a cell in St. Bartholomew's priory, from which, when the tumult had ceased, he was removed, and, at the baron's request, delivered over to him for punishment.

This unexpected consummation wrought upon Holgrave so much, that, with the sullen determination which had marked his character on previous occasions, he resolved not to answer any questions whatever. We should have premised, that the galleyman had given Holgrave a solemn promise, that if any ill befel him, Margaret should be cared for like his own wife. This was a solace to him, as he thought over his mother's death, and his own evil destiny. But there was another solace, that, strange as it may appear to some minds, arose from the thought, that whatever might befall him, the baron's heir would share in it. At first, when he had been removed to Sudley, mild measures were resorted to. He was lodged in a comfortable apartment, fed plentifully, and promised his freedom with whatever reward he might claim, if he would but speak satisfactorily as to the lost child. When this failed, he was sent to the keep, and for a week black bread and cold water were the only articles of aliment supplied; and then the peine forte et dure was resorted to. But though his face was swollen, and of a livid, purple hue, and the eyes seemed starting from their sockets at the pressure on his chest, as he lay with his limbs extended on the earth, yet would he not speak the word which would have released him from all this suffering. The extreme punishment, however, of adding weights until nature could sustain no more, was delayed from day to day. The baroness had twice given birth to children who had survived but a few hours; the third had lived, but it was a daughter; and as she dwelt upon the approaching extinction of their noble line, she dared not permit the order to be given that might deprive her of all hope. Day after day were the weights pressing and stifling, and forcing the blood that still crept through his veins to his extremities, and distending the hands and feet with a feeling of agony. But though the pressure was at each time removed when the leech pronounced the prisoner exhausted, yet it appeared repetition, though slow, would effect the work as surely as if the punishment had been in the first instance applied in all its legal rigour.

Calverley, although he feigned to exert himself, would not in reality seek for Margaret while Holgrave lived; but Black Jack, who, after eluding the pursuit of Leicester, returned to Sudley, and domesticated himself in the castle under the hope of supplanting Calverley, had, of course, no motive for deception; and the baron's offer of gold was too tempting not to call forth all his ingenuity. But neither he, nor fifty other mercenaries who were out upon the scent, could discover the track.

Holgrave had been about a month a prisoner, when Sir Robert Knowles came to Sudley, to announce that Richard would honour the castle with his presence on the following day, and on the next proceed on to Gloucester to hold a parliament. As they were sitting at the evening banquet—

"My Lord de Boteler," said Sir Robert Knowles, "do you remember the circumstance of a certain vassal of yours being accused of shooting a buck?"

"Yes, perfectly."

"His name, I think, was Stephen Holgrave—the same Holgrave that was among the rebels, is it not?"

"The same man, Sir Robert."

"So I thought," returned the knight; "but, however, that must not weigh now. Have you a vassal named John Byles?"

Calverley, who was handing a replenished goblet to Sir Robert's page, started so much at this interrogatory, that the wine-cup dropped from his hands.

"Yes," replied De Boteler.

"Has that man a wife named Mary?"

"He has," quickly replied Isabella, unable to divine the cause of such singular enquiries.

"Then, my lord, I request that John Byles and his wife be instantly brought before us; and with your leave, no one passes from this hall except my page, till they appear," continued Sir Robert, as he observed a movement in the steward, indicating an intention to retire.

"Martin," he added to his page, "go you to one of the servitors in the court-yard, and tell him to accompany you to this John Byles; you know how to keep your counsel, and remember, that the Baron de Boteler commands John Byles and his wife to come instantly to the castle. Do you not, my lord?"

"Yes, if it is your pleasure," said the baron, with a smile.

"I perceive," resumed Sir Robert, as the page withdrew, "that my conduct surprises you; but I cannot yet explain."

The surprise, indeed, was not confined to the individuals who sat at the upper table; gradually, as the purport of Sir Robert's words was whispered about, did the hall become hushed, and the eyes of those who sat below, and of those who were in attendance, were fixed with a kind of painful expectation upon the baron's guest. The domestics, however, were not so entirely engrossed by Sir Robert as to be wholly unmindful of Calverley; and significant nods and smiles were exchanged, as they saw, or fancied they saw, evidences of extreme agitation in the steward. After a few minutes' expectation, John Byles and his wife were ushered in by the page.

Sir Robert looked inquisitively at the yeoman and his wife, but more particularly at Mary; and, as if he read her character in her countenance, said something in a low voice to De Boteler, who instantly ordered Byles to retire into the ante-room till called for. The door being closed, the baron, at Sir Robert's request, bade Mary Byles approach. Mary, upon entering the hall, had looked a very comely sort of personage; but as misgivings gave place to the flattered confidence which had given firmness to her step as she entered, she now presented a totally different aspect.

"Come closer to the table, Mary Byles," said Sir Robert, addressing her in an authoritative, but yet in a familiar tone—"come nearer; and with my Lord de Boteler's leave, I shall ask you a few questions." Mary curtsied, and rather hesitatingly approached the foot of the table.

"Now, Mary Byles, I wish you to tell me what kind of a night it was when John Byles and your servitor, Sam, went into my Lord de Boteler's chase to kill a buck?"

Mary was of a florid complexion; but at this unexpected question, she stood before the searching look of the baron with her cheeks as colourless as if she had been struck by the angel of death.

"Are you striving to recollect?" asked Sir Robert, without any symptoms of anger.

"I don't understand your lordship," at length tremblingly articulated Mary.

"Do you not?—I think I speak plain language—however, if you forget the appearance of the night when the buck was shot, perhaps you can tell me on what day of the week your man, Sam, managed to get into Holgrave's cottage, and steal the shafts from the quiver over the fire-place?"

Up to this period the hall had been as still as if Sir Robert and Mary were its only occupants; but at this point a murmur arose, as if by the power of magic, each was in a moment convinced of Holgrave's innocence.

"Peace!" vociferated De Boteler—"Answer, woman!" he continued, stamping his foot.

Mary saw that she had nothing to do but deny, and this she did most stoutly.

"Wretch!" said De Boteler, "Why do you not tell the truth?"

But Mary was not to be intimidated, and Sir Robert, perceiving he could gain nothing from her in this way, arose, and approaching the baroness, who had been looking on with much interest, said, softly, "My Lady de Boteler, I wish to put a question or two to this woman, but as what I shall ask must be distressing to you, perhaps you had better retire."

"No—no," replied Isabella, "do not fear for me?—This is so strange, I must hear what you have to say."

"Prepare yourself then, lady," said Sir Robert, and he resumed his seat.

"Mary Byles," he began, "I have one more question to ask you. How many drops of that fatal potion was it that Edith Holgrave told you to give my lord's infant?"

A smothered sob from Isabella, now added to Mary's perplexity, her cheeks and temples became flushed, and, with a bewildered look, she said—

"I don't know—I don't remember any thing about it!"

"Now, Mary Byles," resumed Sir Robert, speaking more decisively than he had yet spoken, "I insist upon your giving me a true answer to this—Did you not say to your husband, on the evening you returned from Gloucester, after Edith's trial, 'Edith's death lies like murder on my conscience; oh, I wish I hadn't taken Calverley's advice, but had told my lady of the mistake?'"

"Calverley!" repeated De Boteler, "What did you say of Calverley? What, did Calverley advise you to?"

Mary had sustained herself wonderfully well, considering how unprepared she had been, but this last interrogatory of Sir Robert, conjuring up, as it were, Edith's ghost, was too much; she struggled against nature for an instant, and then, giving an hysterical shriek, fell back in strong convulsions.

Two of the domestics were ordered to bear her from the hall; and, when there was again silence, Sir Robert said, "That woman is too artful to betray herself! Let Byles be called in?"

The yeoman re-entered, and Sir Robert began, in a voice so familiar, that Byles was thrown off his guard. "John Byles, how came you to be so foolish as to fall in the ravine the night you and Sam went to shoot the buck?"

"It wasn't I who fell in, my lord—it was—"

"—Sam—who fell in," said Sir Robert, as he saw Byles hesitate to proceed farther. "You are right, yeoman, it was Sam, and you helped him out—but I desire you to tell me, if you had succeeded in conveying the buck to Holgrave's shed, how many nobles Master Calverley was to have given you?"

Byles looked at his interrogator as if he had been the evil one himself; but he had committed himself, so he thought it the wiser way to say nothing.

"Why do you not answer, man?" continued Sir Robert, at the same time giving De Boteler a glance, intimating that he wished not to be interrupted. "I know how many the steward promised you, but I desire to know how much you received."

"I neither gave nor promised him any thing," said Calverley, approaching the table under the impression of giving a tone to what Byles should say.

"Thou liest, kern!" said Sir Robert, rising suddenly, and in a voice which made Calverley start back. "My Lord de Boteler, I accuse your steward of bribing yonder caitiff to slay a buck with shafts stolen from Stephen Holgrave, and then to lay the slaughtered animal in Holgrave's barn. I also accuse him of prevailing upon that man's wife to lay the crime of murder upon an innocent woman! And, my lord, if you will hold a court to-morrow morning, one whom I found in the Tower, will prove my charges, and the wronged shall be righted."

"Calverley done all this!" said the baron in a tone of incredulity; but then, as the steward's persevering hostility to Holgrave flashed across his mind, it seemed to bring conviction.

The hall at this moment presented a strange spectacle. Every individual except Isabella and Oakley, were on their feet. The domestics, though not venturing to proceed beyond their own table, were bending their heads eagerly forward, to look more particularly at Calverley than at Byles, as if this charge of crime had developed some new feature in the man. Byles, with his hale complexion, changed to the paleness of a corpse, stood trembling at the foot of the table, at the head of which was standing De Boteler, with a flushed countenance and his eyes fixed upon Calverley, with such a look, that if the glance of an eye could have killed, the steward would have been consumed on the spot. There was an instant of silence, or at least there was nothing but an indistinct murmur from the lower end of the hall; and Calverley, who seemed strangely composed, took advantage of the moment to say, though without raising his eyes—

"My lord, whatever charges Sir Robert Knowles may have against me, I am ready to meet them."

"Peace, wretch!" said De Boteler, choking with passion. "Here, let these plotters be confined separately till the morrow—and, Luke," he added, to the old steward, "let you and John Oakley go instantly to Holgrave, and see him removed from the keep, and put him into a warm bed—and take ye a flask of wine and pour some down his throat—and see that the leech attend him." He now turned to Isabella and strove to dispel from her mind the sad thoughts that the last half hour had called up, but it was not, as the baron imagined, the remembrance of her murdered child alone, which had sent a paleness to her cheek, and a tremor through her frame; it was rather the thought that through judging rashly she had been an accessory to the death of one who perhaps deserved reward rather than punishment.

The next morning the hall was again converted into a court of justice. De Boteler took his seat, and the eager vassals crowded in to hear the expected justification of Stephen Holgrave. Calverley, as being a party accused, was of course incapacitated from filling the accustomed situation in the court; and as old Luke was too infirm, Oakley was selected. Black Jack had begun to be very calculating—a portion of the money he had received in London had already disappeared in his secret debauchery. The bribe was not so large as he had been led to expect, and he had sense enough to know that his habits were not adapted for turning what remained to any account. The stewardship of Sudley was so easy and profitable! The very thought of it was delightful—and as nothing had as yet transpired to criminate him, he accepted of the temporary dignity with the most sanguine hopes that Calverley's delinquencies might fix him in it permanently.

But lo! when Calverley's prison door was opened, for the purpose of conducting him to the hall, he was not to be found! It was to no purpose that the baron stormed and threatened, no trace of Calverley could be discovered; but John Byles was brought forward, and, upon being confronted with his own servitor, and promised that if he made a full disclosure, the punishment of the crime should be remitted, he confessed all with which the reader was made acquainted in the early part of the tale. The question of poisoning was then put, but Byles had cunning enough to remember that no one was privy to this but Calverley, and as it might peril Mary's life, he stoutly denied all knowledge of the matter. Mary Byles, who had also been kept in durance, was then introduced, but she was more collected than on the preceding evening, and would admit nothing. She knew not any thing of the buck—and she could say nothing more respecting the poisoning than she had already said at Gloucester, and the supposition of Edith's innocence, was compelled to rest upon the servitor's oath, who swore that he had heard Mary say, on the evening she returned from Gloucester, what Sir Robert had repeated. This, coupled with the circumstance that, together with the poisoning, Mary had denied what her husband had admitted, and what could not have happened without her knowledge, brought sufficiently conclusive evidence to convince every one that Edith had died a martyr to Mary's cruelty or carelessness.

As the baron had promised not to punish, Byles and his wife were dismissed unharmed; but from that hour forward, they were regarded by all as under ban, and therefore shunned as much as possible. We should premise, however, that before Byles was permitted to leave the hall, Stephen Holgrave was led in, that he might receive a public acquittal. When Holgrave entered, supported by one of the servitors, and, appearing unable to stand, was seated on a stool, Sir Robert Knowles, who had more than once taken a strong interest in him, started up, and was about to make some observation; but recollecting himself, he resumed his seat, and remained silent. De Boteler himself felt a glow of shame and a qualm of conscience, as he looked upon the white, swollen face, and bent and shrunken form of one who had, in the moment of peril, sprung, with the vigour and ferocity of the tiger, between him and death. Holgrave had not been informed why the agonizing punishment had been remitted, nor why he had been placed in a comfortable bed, and every attention paid him; and he only suspected that, perceiving severity could effect nothing, they were unwilling to lose their victim, and wished again to try the effect of a milder treatment. His suspicions seemed confirmed, when, upon an order from De Boteler, a page approached, and presented him with a cup of wine. Although, as we have said, suspecting the motive of so much indulgence, he drank the wine, and then, looking round the hall, wondered why there had been such a gathering of the vassals, and why their looks were bent upon him with such friendly interest, and why words of pity and triumph were murmured amongst them; then he wondered why Jack Straw was sitting in Calverley's place, and what fault John Byles and his wife had committed, that they stood there like criminals. These thoughts, however, had scarcely passed through his mind, when the baron addressed him in a gentle tone.

"Stephen Holgrave," said he, "you remember, some seven years since, being accused of shooting a buck in my chase. It is not to repeat the charge that I sent for you, but, before this noble sir and these vassals, publicly to acquit you of the base deed. He who stole your arrows, and shot the animal, stands there!" and he pointed towards Byles.—"And he who bribed him to be a thief and a liar, aware of his guilt, has fled, and has for the present escaped my vengeance. And now, Holgrave, it repents me that I dealt so hardly by your mother, for, as I hope to die a Christian's death, I believe she died innocent."

Sir Robert had remarked the sudden flush, and then the death-like paleness, which had passed over Holgrave's face, as his glance fixed upon Byles; and perceiving that, as his dead mother was spoken of, he became excessively agitated, he ordered his page to carry him another cup of wine; and the two criminals being removed, De Boteler continued,

"Approach, Stephen Holgrave."

Holgrave arose, and though he trembled, excitement had lent him such strength, that he walked up to the baron without assistance. De Boteler then, taking Holgrave's right hand, pushed him, with a gentle violence, away, at the same instant repeating, in a loud voice, "Away! thou art free!" and then added, "Hear, all ye assembled, that I, Roland de Boteler, release Stephen Holgrave from his bondage, and that from henceforth he oweth me no allegiance, except what is due as a vassal in chivalry."

And now the vassals, who had hitherto kept in tolerable order, upon seeing Holgrave again a free man, set up such a joyful shout, that the approach of the royal guest was not known until the portals were thrown open, and Richard, leaning familiarly upon the arm of the Earl of Oxford, entered the hall.

"You hold a court to-day, my Lord de Boteler," said Richard, as the baron hurried forward between the ranks of the shrinking vassals to welcome the monarch.

Words of courteous gratulation were uttered by De Boteler, as he led his visitor to a splendid chair which had been prepared for him, and presented, on his knee, a cup of spiced wine. During this, Isabella and Lady Ann Knowles had entered the hall, and, after being presented to the king, Lady Ann whispered to Sir Robert, who requested that Holgrave, who was about to depart, although no longer a prisoner, should remain in the castle, at least for that day. Holgrave promised acquiescence, and the hall being cleared of the tenantry, Richard and the attendant lords, whom he and his favourite had by half an hour outstripped, presently sat down to a splendid banquet.

During their ride, Robert de Vere had acquainted Richard with the singular disappearance of his sister's infant son, and with the suspicions she entertained respecting Holgrave. That love of the marvellous, which seems inherent in youth, was awakened in all its vigour in the young king; and, as the repast concluded, he heard, with a feeling of pleasure, De Boteler ask permission to interrogate a vassal in his presence.

"Please your highness," continued the baron, "the man is exceedingly stubborn. We suspect him of having stolen our child, but nothing has as yet been able to extract a confession, though, perhaps, your highness's presence may have some effect."

The domestics at the lower table had withdrawn, and Oakley, who was continued in his functions as steward, was ordered to see that Holgrave attended.

"Stephen Holgrave," said De Boteler, as the former approached, "I have sent for you, to certify, in this presence, that I restore to you the land you were once possessed of, with its stock and crops; and whatever you may need besides shall be given you from the stores of the castle:—it is only giving you back your own, Stephen. But it is his grace's pleasure, that now, as your late offences are forgiven, you make a full disclosure of whatever you know respecting my stolen child."

All eyes were now riveted upon Holgrave; and a mind, less firm, would have trembled and hesitated until the whole truth was either revealed or suspected: but Holgrave, although prepared for such interrogatories, did not appear disposed to give an immediate reply. He had lost the confidence in fair speeches he once possessed. His freedom had been torn from him, and, though now pronounced free, what surety had he that the morrow might not again behold him a bond-slave? Thoughts like these could easily be detected in the contraction of the brow, and compression of the lips; and there might also have been detected, together with a resentment for the suspicions which had been cast upon his mother, a determination not to subject himself to the chances of further persecution by acknowledging the wrong he had done. At this moment, when the colour was receding from De Boteler's cheek, and when every respiration which Isabella drew was distinctly audible, a figure, which had stood unnoticed behind one of the statues, moved on, and, ascending one step of the elevation, threw back a cloak from his shoulders and a cowl from his head, revealing the strongly marked countenance and imposing figure of John Ball! Several of the attendants sprung forward to secure him; but a motion from De Boteler restrained their zeal, and, without noticing the action of the menials, the monk, regarding those only who sat round the table, addressed them in that deep, solemn tone peculiar to him.

"Start not," said he, "John Ball is not come to harm you;—he never harmed any to whom God gave the breath of life,—neither did he counsel the blood which has been spilt. A price is set upon his head—but think ye the homeless wanderer fears to die? Baron of Sudley, I have come thus far to tell you what I told you once before—that if ye will swear to set free the bondmen of Sudley, the child you mourn as dead shall be restored to you!"

"O! swear, Roland! swear!" said Isabella, starting from her seat, and, forgetful of all save her own intense feelings, she clasped her hands on her husband's shoulder.

"I do swear," said De Boteler, taking a crucifix from the monk, who extended one towards him, and kneeling before Richard; "I do swear, upon this blessed cross, and before my liege lord, that if my child is restored to me, so that I can claim him as my own, I will release every bondman within this manor, and that, from thenceforth, there shall be no more bondage in the barony of Sudley."

"Stephen, will ye restore the child?"

"I will," replied Holgrave, with softened feelings and a brightening countenance, "the child, my lord, shall be given up to you."

"He shall be given up," repeated the monk; and then, clasping his hands upon his bosom, he descended the steps, strode through the hall, and, in less than a minute, re-appeared, leading in Margaret and the child, and followed by the galleyman.

Although, from the growth of the boy thus introduced, it might be judged he was about eight years, yet there was that sparkling vivacity, and that lightness of lip and eye which belong to an earlier age; and, as the wandering glance of the dark eye, and the smile of the red lip, met De Boteler's gaze, a tumultuous throbbing in his bosom told him that the child was indeed his own.

Isabella rose, and attempted to approach the boy—but the body was not able to bear the fervour of the spirit. Her heart sickened, the light faded from her eyes, and she sank back in the arms of the sympathizing Lady Knowles.

"That boy is yours, my lord," said Sir Robert Knowles, "let who will be the mother!"

"Peace, profane jester!" said the monk. "Baron of Sudley, do you believe that this is the son thy lady mourned?"

"I do believe," returned the baron, in a more subdued voice than mortal had ever heard from him before; and he approached the child, who was nestling close to Margaret, and looking around with an abashed but inquisitive countenance.

"My Lord de Boteler," said Holgrave, drawing the child almost forcibly from Margaret, "as I hope that my mother is a saint in heaven, the child is yours. I was a bondman—was motherless—childless—and I thought it would be no crime to make you, too, desolate!"

De Boteler looked at Holgrave as he spoke, but did not reply; but, placing his hand upon the full shoulder that rose above the boy's tunic, he bent his head down and kissed the child's forehead.

"The child is exceedingly like you!" remarked Richard.

"There is a resemblance, my lord," said Oxford: "but it is not likenesses nor assertions that will satisfy me—I require proof!"

"And proof you shall have," replied the monk. "Holgrave, declare how you obtained the child!"

Isabella, who had recovered her consciousness, and who now, with almost convulsive extacy, was embracing the child, cast an angry glance at her brother, as if she feared that some discrepancy in the proof might bring her right to claim him in question. De Boteler, however, did not appear displeased, but merely said, "Holgrave, you have not declared how you obtained the child."

"If it please you, my lord, when I was a boy, I was one morning rubbing down one of the late lord's horses for the servitor, whose duty it was to do it, when, all on a sudden, as I was stooping down to wipe the horse's feet, I saw the wall at the back of one of the stalls open, and out came the old baron. He looked round, but fortunately, or it may be unfortunately for him who is now lord, he did not see me."

"And you discovered where the secret opening led?"

"Yes—with all the curiosity of a boy, I afterwards found that the secret door led by some long dark steps to the bed-chamber of the old lord!"

"Did you mention your discovery to any one?"

"To no one, until after I had stolen the child—and then I told all to father John."

"This story," remarked the Earl of Oxford, "requires proof as much as any thing else."

"You shall receive that of your own eyes," said Holgrave, "if it please you to accompany me;" and Richard, expressing a wish to witness every thing connected with the strange discovery, arose, and, with De Boteler, Oxford, and Sir Robert Knowles, proceeded as we have before described, to the bed-chamber. "From that bed, my lord," said Holgrave to De Boteler, "I took the child—it slept soundly—I crept down these steps—it was a dark night—and I got home without being seen!"

"This is not satisfactory proof," said Oxford.

"My lord, I have more to shew you," resumed Holgrave.

They then descended to the stabling, and, followed by many inquisitive eyes, went on to Holgrave's cottage.

It was uninhabited, but the door was fastened, and Holgrave forcing it open, led the way into the deserted abode. A chill came over him as he removed the chest; but taking up a shovel from a corner, where he himself had thrown it, he prepared to remove the clay. He hesitated for a moment, and then began his task;—he had dug about a foot deep, when, raising up a slip of wood about one foot broad and two in length, the perfect form of an infant, lying beneath, caused those who were looking silently on to utter an exclamation.

"Poor babe! it was a sad night I laid ye there," said Holgrave, bending over the grave, and looking earnestly at the little corpse; and then kneeling down, he attempted to raise one of the hands, but it dropped crumbling from his touch.

Holgrave, although he had exerted himself much during the last hour, was extremely weak; and this little circumstance affected him so deeply that he started on his feet, and, to hide the weakness of tears, turned away his head from those who were gazing upon him.

"I was a man, and I felt as a father," said Holgrave, turning again and looking at De Boteler, "and yet I stole your child, and dug that grave, and with my own hands laid in my little one;—and why did I do it? Because I had determined that your child should wear the bondage you had given to me."

"This seems strange language from a bondman," said Richard, aside to Oxford.

"The man has an obstinate spirit, your grace," returned the earl.

"De Boteler," said Sir Robert Knowles, "this bondage should never have been."

"Was I more than man, that I could tell the traitor Calverley deceived me?" impatiently returned the baron, as he felt, though not choosing to acknowledge it, that he had done wrong when he insisted on the bondage.

During this brief colloquy, Holgrave had again bent over the grave, and had taken up the box in which were deposited the articles that had been on the young De Boteler. Sir Robert, mistaking his motive, observed, "You must not think of removing the babe, Holgrave. This hut is but of little worth—you can throw it down, and bring a priest to say a prayer over the spot; and then the grave will be as good as if it were in a church-yard."

Holgrave bent his head in acknowledgment to the knight; and, placing the box under his arm, observed, "I hid these, lest they should be witness against me; and now, if it please ye, noble sirs, to come back to the hall, I will restore them to my lady."

When the yeoman had returned to the castle, and presented the box to Isabella, the evidences it contained, in the dress and crucifix, were so conclusive, that the Earl of Oxford gave a kiss of welcome to the little Ralph.

"Baron of Sudley," said John Ball, "do ye acknowledge that child as your son?"

"I do, monk, and I will fulfil my vow. Stephen Holgrave, to you I give the charge of collecting all my bondmen;—see that they are assembled here to-morrow morning. They shall be freed; and from henceforth, as I vowed, there shall be no more bondage in Sudley; and, by my faith! I believe I shall be better served by freemen than serfs."