Volume II Part 94 (2/2)

Prentices in red and ray, marchaunts in their saffron, Aldermen in violets, and minstrels in white, Clerks in homely hoods of budge, and wives with crimson wimples, Thronging as to welcome him that happy summer night.

”Back,” they cried, and ”Clear the way,” and caught the ringing bridle-reins: ”Wait! the Watch is going by, this vigil of St. John!”

Merrily laughed the chapmen then, reining their great white horses back, ”When the pageant pa.s.ses, lad, we'll up and follow on!”

There, as thick the crowd surged, beneath the blossomed ale-poles, Lifting up to Whittington a fair face afraid, Swept against his horse by a billow of madcap prentices, Hard against the stirrup breathed a green-gowned maid.

Swift he drew her up and up, and throned her there before him, High above the throng with her laughing April eyes, Like a Queen of Faerie on the great pack-saddle.

”Hey!” laughed the chapmen, ”the prentice wins the prize!”

”Whittington! Whittington! the world is all before you!”

Blithely rang the bells and the steeples rocked and reeled!

Then--he saw her eyes grow wide, and, all along by Leaden Hall, Drums rolled, earth shook, and shattering trumpets pealed.

Like a marching sunset, there, from Leaden Hall to Aldgate, Flared the crimson cressets--O, her brows were haloed then!-- Then the stirring steeds went by with all their mounted trumpeters, Then, in ringing harness, a thousand marching men.

Marching--marching--his heart and all the halberdiers, And his pulses throbbing with the throbbing of the drums; Marching--marching--his blood and all the burganets!

”Look,” she cried, ”O, look,” she cried, ”and now the morrice comes!”

Dancing--dancing--her eyes and all the Lincoln Green, Robin Hood and Friar Tuck, dancing through the town!

”Where is Marian?” Laughingly she turned to Richard Whittington.

”Here,” he said, and pointed to her own green gown.

Dancing--dancing--her heart and all the morrice-bells!

Then there burst a mighty shout from thrice a thousand throats!

Then, with all their bows bent, and sheaves of peac.o.c.k arrows, Marched the tall archers in their white silk coats,

White silk coats, with the crest of London City Crimson on the shoulder, a sign for all to read,-- Marching--marching--and then the sworded henchmen, Then, William Walworth, on his great stirring steed.

_Flos Mercatorum_, ay, the fish-monger, Walworth,-- He whose nets of silk drew the silver from the tide, He who saved the king when the king was but a prentice,-- Lord Mayor of London, with his sword at his side!

Burned with magic changes, his blood and all the pageantry; Burned with deep sea-changes, the wonder in her eyes; _Flos Mercatorum!_ 'Twas the rose-mary of Paphos, Reddening all the City for the prentice and his prize!

All the book of London, the pages of adventure, Pa.s.sed before the prentice on that vigil of St. John: Then the chapmen shook their reins,--”We'll ride behind the revelry, Round again to Cornhill! Up, and follow on!”

Riding on his pack-horse, above the shouting mult.i.tude, There she turned and smiled at him, and thanked him for his grace: ”Let me down by _Red Rose Lane_,” and, like a wave of twilight While she spoke, her shadowy hair--touched his tingling face.

When they came to _Red Rose Lane_, beneath the blossomed ale-poles, Light along his arm she lay, a moment, leaping down: Then she waved ”farewell” to him, and down the Lane he watched her Flitting through the darkness in her gay green gown.

All along the Cheape, as he rode among the chapmen, Round by _Black Friars_, to the _Two-Necked Swan_ Coloured like the sunset, prentices and maidens Danced for red roses on the vigil of St. John.

Over them were jewelled lamps in great black galleries, Garlanded with beauty, and burning all the night; All the doors were shadowy with orpin and St. John's wort, Long fennel, green birch, and lilies of delight.

”He should have slept here at the Mermaid Inn,”

Said Heywood as the chanter paused for breath.

”What? Has our Mermaid sung so long?” cried Ben.

”Her beams are black enough. There was an Inn,”

Said Tom, ”that bore the name; and through its heart There flowed the right old purple. I like to think It was the same, where Lydgate took his ease After his hood was stolen; and Gower, perchance; And, though he loved the _Tabard_ for a-while, I like to think the Father of us all, The old Adam of English minstrelsy caroused Here in the Mermaid Tavern. I like to think Jolly Dan Chaucer, with his kind shrewd face Fresh as an apple above his fur-fringed gown, One plump hand sporting with his golden chain, Looked out from that old cas.e.m.e.nt over the sign, And saw the pageant, and the s.h.a.ggy nags, With Whittington, and his green-gowned maid, go by.

”O, very like,” said Clopton, ”for the bells Left not a head indoors that night.” He drank A draught of malmsey--and thus renewed his tale:--

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