The Inn of The Painted Lady stood near the river, a gaudy, cut-throat, bold-faced house, the plaster between its beams daubed a hard, bright red, the barge-boards of its gables painted blue. The “Painted Lady” herself on her sign wore scarlet and blue, and her round eyes ogled the passers-by.
The inn door was barred that night, the windows shuttered. Nothing but chinks of light came from it, furtive gleams that lost themselves quickly in the darkness. The lane in front of it was rough and dirty and full of holes, and from the lane a narrow passage went down between two houses to the river.
Hither came Guy, holding Isoult fast by the wrist. And he found Merlin in “The Painted Lady,” and though it was June, sitting on a stool before the fire, his cowl thrown back, his gaunt face glistening, the nails of his right hand bitten to the quick.
Isoult was bidden up the ladder stairs into an attic, and Guy sidled up to Merlin and touched him on the shoulder.
“Prettily fooled, by cock, and by no King!”
Merlin turned on him savagely.
“No King, say you? Too much of a King!”
Then Guy bent to him and whispered, and Merlin started and straightened like a man stabbed in the back.
“Thunder!”
“Ask the wench. It was the bastard, or I’m no man.”
“Mea culpa!” He struck his chin with his fist. “Fool priest, blind ape! And I never scented the fox!”
He sprang up.
“That Sussex hawk—that love child of a Prince! Hallo, listen.”
Men were coming down the lane with a rattle of arms. Someone knocked at the door.
“Who’s there?”
“Wat and John Ball.”
Merlin nodded Guy towards the door. He dropped the bar, and they came crowding in—men whose hands were bloody and whose throats were dry.
“Why bitest thou thy beard, St. Francis?”
“Saints, is the man hungry? Here is good Father John who has not touched a crust.”
Merlin caught Wat by the shoulder.
“I’m in no mood for your clowning when the lords have made fools of us all.”
“Good sir, I think not.”
“Bah! a few old men butchered! Come, hear news!”
He dragged Wat to the far end of the long room where the fire burnt on the hearth. Jack Straw and John Ball joined them, and the rest of the men were for crowding up. Merlin flapped his long arms at them.
“Back! We want no gossips here.”
They shouted for the innkeeper.
“What has befallen old Pot Harry?”
“He has fled.”
“But left his cellar behind him! Down, brothers, down among the hogsheads.”
They crowded, shouting, into a narrow passage, leaving Merlin, Wat the Tiler, Jack Straw, and John Ball alone. Guy tramped to and fro, twisting his moustaches.
The voices by the fire grew angry and querulous.
“What! A stuffed King?”
“He had fettle enough to fool us of forty thousand men. They went, at his bidding, bleating like sheep.”
“This is a fool’s tale. I’d not give a groat for it.”
“The wench, Isoult, knows whether it be the truth or a lie.”
“Where is the woman?”
“Above, in the attic.”
“Have her down. We’ll make her speak.”
Merlin turned to Guy.
“Bid her come.”
Guy climbed the ladder stair, and forced up the trap-door with one hand. His head disappeared through the opening.
“Isoult, Father Merlin has need of you.”
He climbed down, and stood looking up with a grin on his face. There was no light but the light of the fire and the flare of a torch burning in a cresset. Isoult’s red dress showed on the stairs. She descended them slowly, gathering her skirt up with one hand.
The men by the fire stared at her. Their faces looked gaunt and shadowy. Merlin was licking his lips.
“My sister, the truth lies with you. Friend Guy has used his eyes. Speak!”
She stood before them in all her comeliness.
“What truth, Merlin?”
“Tsst! You know well. The King they sent out to us is no King.”
She looked at him, and shrugged her shoulders.
“Is Guy never thirsty?”
“No fencing. Speak out. Was it Fulk Ferrers you saw on the white horse?”
He went near, stooping, and staring her in the face.
“Fulk Ferrers?”
“Yes—Fulk Ferrers.”
She spread her hands.
“Are my eyes quicker than yours? You should know.”
“A woman’s eyes look deep.”
“Mine saw a King.”
He snarled impatiently.
“That will not serve. Answer me. Was it Fulk Ferrers?”
She answered him calmly.
“No.”
Merlin flung out his arms, and his mouth worked.
“A lie—by the Book, a lie!”
“The father knoweth his children. I have answered you.”
Jack Straw sidled up, drawing a knife from its sheath.
“Persuasion—a touch of persuasion! Hold her.”
Guy caught her arms from behind. She stood rigid, staring at the fire.
“The blade of a knife under a thumb nail, hey?”
Isoult did not resist, did not move, but set her teeth and kept her lips shut.
Wat the Tiler sprang up, knocking his stool over.
“Let be. This is a coward’s game. Answer me, Isoult. Was it Richard the King on the white horse?”
“It was the King—as I know him.”
Merlin clutched at her, but Wat thrust him aside.
“Out! You have an answer. Isoult, I am a friend.”
She met his sinister eyes.
“Yes and no. I have spoken.”
Merlin flung back towards the fire in a rage.
“Go, and get you above. Close the trap on her, Guy. This bird may serve as a lure.”
Blood was dripping from Isoult’s hand; she did not heed it, but turned and walked towards the stairs. Guy tried to whisper to her, but she would not listen.
They gathered about the fire, hunching themselves on their stools and putting their heads together. John Ball had been in a stupor of prayer, and he was still kneeling with his face in the shadow. Merlin and Wat were the two who talked. Their voices rose and fell like a wind blowing fitfully through a hole in the wall.
As for Isoult, she found some straw and a horse-cloth in the attic, and spreading them over the trap-door, made her bed there, so that no one could steal in on her in the night.
In the Princess’s chamber at the Wardrobe the real King sat on an oak hutch, kicking his heels against a panel upon which some craftsman had carved the Pelican in her Piety. The lad looked sulky and silent, or as though some inward pain were gnawing in him, the ache of his own shame.
Suddenly he started up, and went towards the door; but his mother, who had been kneeling at herprie-dieu, rose and put herself in his way.
“What would you, sweet son?”
There was less petulance and more manhood in his frown.
“Let me pass. I am the King. I’ll not suffer this upstart.”
“Son, he has done nobly.”
A furtive malice came into his eyes.
“I shall remember it—and him. Let me pass, mother. I go out to claim my own.”
This new spirit in him filled her with a secret exultation, but she kept her place by the door and would not let him come to it.
“No, sweet son, no. It cannot be, this day—or even to-morrow. This Fulk Ferrers has kept faith with us. Were we to break troth with him it would be giving him death.”
Richard’s eyes glittered as though a new thought had come to him. He pulled at his lower lip with finger and thumb.
“Two Kings cannot live in one kingdom.”
He gave a queer, sinister laugh.
“Yes, I will remember Master Fulk Ferrers. I shall be in his debt, mother. I will find my way of paying that debt.”
He returned to the hutch, perched himself and sat thinking, his eyes staring at the opposite wall. His mother drew a stool near to the door, and taking up a “Book of the Hours,” watched him, while pretending to read. She saw a secret, gloating smile steal over his face. He still pulled at his lower lip with his thumb and forefinger, and the smile on his face was not pleasant to behold.
“What is in thy heart, Richard?”
“Honours, madam, for my brother King. He shall not complain of me, neither shall his tongue be in danger of telling the truth. I shall so work with him that his lips shall be sealed.”
“Gratitude, even secret gratitude, becomes a King, Richard.”
“Mother, I am grateful; I shall not forget.”
Such were the words spoken in the chamber of the Princess, but in the King’s chamber stranger words were passing between strong men.
“I have done your work, sirs; now leave me to mine.”
Fulk was walking to and fro, driven by his own desires. Yet three men baulked him—Salisbury, Knollys, and Cavendish the squire, standing with their backs to the door while he paced up and down.
“We have not uncrowned you yet, Fulk Ferrers.”
“What if I uncrown myself?”
Salisbury’s eyes were grim.
“By my faith, we will call it treason. Listen to me, my master; the danger is with us still—aye, greater danger, because some men are desperate. You are ours till it is past.”
Fulk faced him, head in air.
“Treason, my lord! Speak not big words to me. What I choose I choose.”
“Big words are in other mouths. Cavendish—here, speak up, good Cavendish.”
“I keep a dagger, sir, not a tongue.”
Fulk flashed round on him.
“Ha, cut-throat—Master Knife-in-the-back!”
“True for you, Fulk Ferrers. I serve. I keep mum. But I am your comrade to the death if you keep troth.”
“Play fair, lad, play fair.”
“Fair! Am I to be fair to you all and false to my own self?”
He turned, and, walking to the window, drummed with his fingers on the sill. Knollys had not spoken, but had watched and listened. He came forward now, and spoke in Salisbury’s ear.
“Love fires the blood, sir. There is a man’s heart in his words. Leave me alone with him.”
They went out, Cavendish remaining on guard outside the door.
Knollys walked to the window and laid a hand on Fulk’s shoulder.
“Lad, speak out; it is a woman.”
Fulk did not stir.
“True, a woman. I thought her dead. I saw her—living—to-day.”
“Isoult—Isoult of the Rose? She who——?”
“Isoult—aye, Isoult. In the hands of these scullions! God—I’ll not suffer it! She could have betrayed me to-day—you, all of us—but her heart kept troth. Knollys, I must out, beat the city——”
Knollys’ hand gripped his shoulder.
“Fulk, son Fulk, patience. What could you do, alone, lost in the first alley? Leave it to me. I have spies. They shall go and search.”
“But to stand here kicking my toes against the wall!”
“Swear troth to us for one more day. By God, lad, I love the fettle in you. You are my hawk. I flew you. Never a royal bird flew better. Comrade in arms——!”
They gripped hands of a sudden.
“Knollys, I’ll do it. Troth—for another day, though my heart is out yonder.”
“Trust me, lad. I’ll send out beaters and prickers. The rose shall not be worn on a churl’s coat.”
Yet Fulk slept but little that night, for the thought of Isoult was like fire in him—Isoult, who had come from death to life, with her red lips and her coal-black hair. He thought of Merlin and the Stallion and those beasts of the field, and the hot youth in him grew mad and furious. Was this rich rose to be torn and crushed by such hands?
Dawn came, and Fulk, restless, hot-eyed, and impatient, stood at the window and looked out towards the sunrise. Roofs, towers, and pinnacles were black against the yellow east, and although it was but daybreak the dark web of the city seemed to tremble with hidden life. From somewhere came a murmur of voices. In more than one black tower bells were ringing.
The door of the King’s chamber opened, and Cavendish stood there with the look of a man out to meet foul weather.
“What news, Cavendish?”
“Sleet and wind, sir. The day may be rougher than yesterday. My Lords Salisbury and Warwick, and Walworth the Mayor have never seen their beds.”
“And our good friends—the Commons?”
“There is the peril, sir. Those screech owls, John Ball and Jack Straw, have been flying through the city. Many of those who marched off yesterday have marched back again. Our spies have been out since sunset. Wat spoke at Paul’s Cross at midnight—bloody words, I promise you. They say the King’s charters are not to be trusted.”
He laughed grimly, ironically.
“If the fools knew! We have been gathering what power we can. Knollys has several hundred men hidden round about his quarters. Perducas d’Albreth has his free companions. Walworth promises to do what he can with the city bands.”
“And the day’s business? By my sword, Cavendish, I am ready to stretch my wings.”
“We play the game boldly, sir. Clerks have been scribbling charters all night, and it is our wisdom to put a bold face on it. We ride to Westminster to hear Mass.”
Fulk’s eyes shone.
“What of Knollys? Is he here?”
“Knollys bides with his men, ready to make a sally, should it come to blows.”
“He sent me no message?”
“Not a word.”
That Saturday morning Fulk rode to Westminster at the head of no more than sixty souls. No one came out to see them; no one shouted “God save the King!” The highway was empty, the houses shuttered and dumb; but within the walls the city hummed like a hive, for Wat and Merlin had heard that the King had ridden out.
Fulk heard Mass, but his thoughts were all of Isoult. The candles on the high altar were a yellow blur; the sacring bell made a mere tinkling sound a long way off. He knelt, but the sacred bread found no prayer between his lips; the “Deo gratias” was all he listened for, because of the restless love in him, and the lust for action.
On the homeward ride a white-faced messenger met them, a man with fear in his eyes.
“Sir, sir, turn back. The mob is at Smithfield, and mad as a mad dog.”
Fulk reined in.
“Say you so, my friend? Let us see whether the King’s touch cannot cure this madness.”
Walworth and Cavendish drew close to him, after questioning the messenger.
“It is playing with fire! And yet——”
“If we fly the fire the wind will blow it after us. And fire can be quenched.”
They looked in his eyes, and saw the indomitable spirit of the sire in the eyes of the son.
“Nothing venture, nothing have.”
“Lead on, sirs. Now, for the great hazard!”
Before they had ridden another furlong, outlying scuds of the thundercloud came drifting towards them. Ragged knots of men streamed up with bows and bills in their hand, gathering before and behind the King’s company. Some walked close to his horse, and shouted at him insolently.
“Sir King, Wat our captain would speak with you.”
“What of the charters?”
“The charters—the charters!”
“Down with all lords and gentlemen.”
Then Smithfield opened before them, and those who rode in the King’s company saw the space black with a waiting multitude. It was a mute, formidable crowd; but when the white horse came into view, a slow, swelling roar went up, a sound like the rush of a flood-wake when a dam has broken.
Fulk’s lips grew thin, his nostrils dilated.
A knot of figures stood out some twenty paces in front of the main mass grouped behind Wat the Tiler, who was mounted on a black horse, and carried a naked sword over his shoulder. Behind him were John Ball, Jack Straw, and the rebel leaders, and with them Merlin, the grey friar, in a brown smock and a green hood and leggings of leather.
Fulk’s eyes were on Wat the Tiler, measuring the man with his bull’s throat and insolent eyes. Of a sudden there was a movement among the figures behind the man on the black horse. Someone was being pushed forward into the open.
It was Isoult, dressed in a russet cloak and a red hood. Fulk saw her, and for the moment his heart seemed to stand still within him. A man held her by the wrist and was pointing towards the King on the white horse, and the man was Father Merlin.
Fulk’s eyes were two blue stones set in a face of granite. He sat his horse, alert yet motionless, watching Isoult and the man behind her. It was Merlin. Fulk knew him in spite of his peasant’s clothes. Merlin, with his chin thrust forward and his yellow teeth gleaming.
He was speaking to Isoult.
“The truth—out with it! That is no King, but a bastard called Fulk Ferrers.”
He drove his nails into her wrist, but her lips remained closed.
Fulk saw and understood.
There was the secret glitter of a knife in Merlin’s fist. He held it behind Isoult’s left shoulder, and spoke in her ear.
“Speak, jade, speak.”
“It is the King.”
“You lie!”
She closed her eyes, and stood rigid.
“Strike and have done. I’ll utter no word.”
“You jade!”
“Strike, and have done.”
Wat’s eyes were on them. He turned his horse and cursed Merlin.
“Hold, fool!”
“The jade will not speak.”
“By God’s eyes, I like her for it. Put up that knife, curse you, and leave the bastard to me. I have a voice that will scare the kingliness out of him.”
He shouted to the mob behind him.
“Brothers, I go to win our kingdom. Stand fast till I brandish my sword. Then rush on them and slay all—all save the lad on the white horse.”
He rode out towards Fulk, who was waiting at the head of his knights and gentlemen. Wat made his black horse prance and cut capers, to show these lords that he was something of a horseman. His eyes were fixed insolently on Fulk, as though to cow his courage.
“King, seest thou all these men? They have sworn to do whatsoever I shall tell them.”
Fulk kept his eyes on Wat’s.
“My friend, do not boast of it—too soon.”
“What of the charters, King?”
“They will be ready by noon.”
Wat stared at him meaningly.
“All clerks and lawyers are liars, and they serve the King.”
Cavendish and Walworth had ridden up close to Fulk, and Wat saw in Cavendish an old enemy who had once given him a thrashing.
“God’s eyes, here is the cur Cavendish! Give me thy dagger, Cavendish; I shall have need of it.”
Cavendish’s grim face darkened.
“Not I. To the bottomless pit with you, son of a whelp.”
“To the point of a pike with your head, bully Cavendish. I’ll see to it. What have you there—the King’s sword?”
“The King’s sword.”
The Tiler leant forward in the saddle, and his eyes were dangerous.
“By Jesus! the King’s sword! This fellow here on the white horse has no right to it. Give me the King’s sword.”
“I’ll see thee in hell first.”
Wat clapped his hand on his own sword.
“Am I a fool, ye noble knaves? What, this is no King, but a Prince’s bastard. I know thee, Fulk Ferrers.”
He glared in Fulk’s eyes, not noticing Walworth, who was spurring his horse forward.
Fulk spoke but two words.
“Kill, kill!”
The chest of Walworth’s horse struck Wat’s on the flank. A sword flashed, and smote the Tiler across the face. He reeled, toppled out of the saddle, and lay sprawling before the hoofs of Fulk’s white horse.
“Kill!”
Cavendish was out of the saddle and on him like a hound on a fox. Wat tried to rise, but Cavendish’s dagger went home, once in the throat and twice in the chest. Wat’s body twisted, relaxed, lay still.
A great silence held, like the hush in a forest between two gusts of a gathering storm. The mob was mute, staring at the dead body and the King on the white horse.
Then a great bellow of rage went up.
“They have slain our captain! Kill—kill!”
A flare of light leapt into Fulk’s eyes. His figure seemed to dilate, to tower higher on his white horse. He was lifted up, the god of a great moment.
The peasants were bending their bows. Bills, pikes, scythes, and clubs waved in the air. Their shouts were like the cries of wild beasts.
Fulk drove the spurs into his horse and rode forward.
“Sirs, what would you? Listen to me—your King.”
They faltered and stood still, staring upon him, their bows half bent, their weapons wavering.
Out before them all leapt a fanatic figure, a figure in a brown smock and green hood, a figure that tossed its arms and foamed at the mouth. It was Merlin, inarticulate for the moment, smothered by his own frenzy.
“A lie, a lie! Hear, men of the fields!”
A second figure sprang forward, waving a red kerchief. It was Isoult.
Fulk saw the crest of the wave about to break on him and his company. Merlin’s mouth was a red circle, open to shout the truth. Then a closed hand swept up and round, and opened its fingers within a foot of its face. Never had simpler stuff served more nobly. Merlin’s mouth and eyes were full of red pepper.
He choked, ground his knuckles into his eyes, tried to speak, but was bent double with anguish.
Isoult stood forward, laughing, and waving her kerchief.
“A jest, a noble jest! The King, the King!”
His voice carried.
“Sirs, the King—our King! Hear him!”
Fulk turned in the saddle, and spoke to Cavendish, who had followed him.
“Cavendish, as you love honour, look to that woman yonder. Guard her for me with your life. Bring Wat’s horse to me. Speed!”
He spurred his horse, and rode forward to the very edge of the crowd, looking on these men of the fields with masterful eyes and holding up a hand for silence.
“Sirs, sirs, I am your King. We have slain a traitor—a traitor who dared to lay a hand upon his sword. Follow me. I—King Richard—will be your captain.”
Some cheered, others looked at him sullenly. He rode his white horse to and fro in front of them, and then drew rein beside Isoult.
“A horse—a horse!”
Cavendish came leading dead Wat’s black horse. Fulk looked at Isoult, and she at him, and in that glance all their valour and passion met and mingled.
“Sirs, I am King Richard. Behold the Queen of the Commons. Behold your Queen!”
Isoult understood. Cavendish gave her his hand and knee, and she was on the black horse’s back, facing the crowd and smiling.
Fulk saluted her; eyes and heart were in that homage.
“Men of England, behold the Queen of the Commons. I am Richard, your captain. Now, by the splendour of God, I charge you follow me.”
He had won them. They cheered, surged round him, waving their caps and hoods on the points of their bows and bills. Merlin, a coughing, sneezing, impotently raging thing, was smothered in the eddies of the crowd. Fulk stretched out a hand for Isoult’s. He spoke to her, looking in her eyes.
“My desire, I had thought you dead.”
“I am alive, to soar with you, brave falcon.”
She gazed at him with strange, passionate pride.
“Ah, King of the Burning Heart!”
“I am the green leaf of the rose. By my soul, I know that you dared death.”
He kissed her hand before them all, and the mob shouted.
“Long live King Richard and the Queen of the Commons.”
When they would give him silence he shouted, “Sirs, follow me.”
And they followed him like sheep into the open fields about Islington.
Isoult’s eyes were on Fulk as they rode, but now and again she glanced back at the crowding faces of the mob.
“What will you do with them?”
“Bide my time. Men are coming who will not fail us.”
He did not trust in vain. Fulk had drawn rein, and the mob had spread out over a stretch of grass land, trampling the uncut hay under their feet when a cloud of dust arose between them and the city. Spear points and pennons caught the sunlight, and across the fields Robert Knollys came riding at the head of a thousand men. They bulked bigger than their number, thundering in close order, trumpets screaming, spears bristling, with a clash and jingle of steel. Behind them came Walworth the Mayor, at the head of certain city bands, bows strung, and brown bills flashing.
“Come.”
Fulk seized the bridle of Isoult’s horse, clapped in the spurs, and rode to meet Knollys’ great company. They opened and let him through. He drew rein before the forest of spears, and halted them with upraised arm.
Knollys rode forward.
“Sir, by the splendour of God, let our trumpets sound, and let us trample these wretches into the grass.”
“No, by God; for they have trusted me. They shall go unharmed. Send Walworth to me. He shall speak to them.”
The mob hung there, wavering, and making a discordant and querulous clamour. They were without leaders, and cowed and dumbfounded by Knollys’ spears.
Walworth came riding up, and Fulk spoke with him.
“Walworth, good friend, down on your knees. This shall be remembered.”
He knighted him, smiling as he bent to touch him with his sword.
“My hand is as good as another’s. Now, Sir Mayor, ride to those men yonder, demand my banners, say that I am merciful, that I have held back those who would have slaughtered them. Bid them depart—each man to his own home.”
Walworth rode forward and spoke to them, and then Fulk and his fellows beheld a wonderful, strange sight. It was as though the bank of a pool had given way, and the brown wash of that multitude of heads and faces broke and flowed away on every side. They surrendered the banners and fled, swarming over the fields in ragged masses, some flying towards the city, others into the open country. This revolt was repulsed, broken, scattered.
Fulk sat on his horse and watched them, and a strange light came into his eyes. He heard Knollys speaking.
“Now are they like sheep that but an hour ago were very wolves. And one man has conquered them.”
Fulk turned to him.
“No, by God; but for a woman’s wit we should have been beaten into the dust.”
His eyes sought Isoult.
“Now have we soared together, you and I, into the blue.”
It was night, and the Princess knelt at herprie-dieuin her chamber at the Wardrobe, and offered up thanks for the passing of this great peril. And being a noble lady, and a woman of heart, she prayed for Fulk Ferrers as well as for her son.
Fulk had been brought to her, and she had looked him in the eyes, marvelling, and trying to put the bitterness out of her heart.
“Sir, we are your very great debtors.”
Fulk, though a young man, had felt her pride, her beauty, and her shame, and had kissed her hands.
“Madame, if I have served, I have served. Let no man speak of it hereafter, for I shall not.”
She had gazed at him questioningly.
“Can a man, and a young man, step down and forget so generously?”
“I shall keep faith,” and he had smiled; “but I may crave to rule a company of ‘spears’ instead of a herd of deer.”
The Princess had given him the words of a great lady; but in the King’s chamber the real King sat sullenly in his chair, frowning and biting his thumbnail. With him were my Lords Salisbury and Warwick, and Sir Robert Knollys—men who looked at the lad with stark scorn, because of the paltry temper he was showing now that the peril was past. Shame had bitten deep into him and left a poison in the wound. His heart was too meagre to be magnanimous—a little, peevish, cunning heart that could not humble itself and so be healed.
He started up suddenly, petulant, and full of spite.
“I’ll not see this fellow, this bastard. Let him keep out of my sight.”
Salisbury towered near him like an oak.
“Sir, this bastard, as you call him, has your sire’s blood in him. And he has saved your kingdom.”
The lad was in a wild-cat mood, which served him for a sort of mannerless courage.
“Old fool, am I to have this ruffler held up before me like the image of a saint? Silence, I say I am King. I will play the King—aye, and better than he has played it.”
They eyed him with disrelish.
“Let no man dare to speak his name to me or I will dub him traitor.”
“Never was there a more honourable traitor, sir, than this.”
“Am I the King? Am I to be obeyed? I will deal with this swashbuckler.”
Knollys’ heel was beating the ground.
“Sir King, have a care.”
“Sir, do you threaten?”
Knollys’ wrath and scorn burst like a thundercloud.
“Boy, I served your sire, who was a noble prince and a great captain. Threaten! Let the truth threaten. This young man is your half-brother, and, by my soul, he is ten times more the prince than you are!”
Richard’s rage was the rage of an ape.
“Treason, sir, you speak treason!”
“Treason! Who shall charge Knollys with treason? You—a thing that cowered under its mother’s bed-quilt? By the splendour of God, all Christendom shall know the truth if you seek to deal treacherously with the man who has served you.”
Richard glanced at the faces of the two lords, but in their eyes he saw the same words shining unspoken. Their eyes cowed him, and he began to whimper.
“Sirs, will you drive me witless with shame?”
Knollys softened.
“Son of a great prince, follow your sire and all this shall be buried. Let this shame be trodden under your feet. Play the King, and all men shall hail you King and son of your father.”
Richard was cunning behind his cowering.
“But this Fulk Ferrers, what shall be done with him?”
Knollys’ wrath revived.
“Done with him? If there is a heart in you, sir, you will do deeds that are noble. Fulk Ferrers can keep faith. Let him be honoured—in good season. Let him have a coffer full of gold, knighthood, a company of spears at his back, a pennon to carry. He will not cumber this kingship of yours. The falcon flies where the quarry is to be stooped at.”
“What mean you, sir?”
“Are there not wars and great adventures in France and Spain? Are not great knights and captains welcomed? This son of a prince will not wilt on a doorstep.”
They left him alone in his chamber to think over their words, and went below to a room that was used as a council chamber, and gathered the King’s Council about the board. Other lords and knights, good men and honourable, had been told the truth, swearing on the Cross to keep it hidden. It was midnight, and they debated together, while Cavendish slept across the door.
“What is to be done, sirs? This hawk cannot fly as he pleases.”
Walworth had a plan to offer, and he was as shrewd as any man in London.
“Gentlemen, suffer me. This young man has dealt valiantly with us; let us deal valiantly with him. By the Lord Christ, I, for one, am ready to dip into my coffers. Let him have arms and horses, and treasure—good men, and a good ship. Let him sail into Spain or Portugal. Let us make him a King of Adventure.”
The rest applauded. Salisbury took up the talking.
“You are a wise man, Walworth, and a generous, but the moment is urgent. Two Kings in one house—tsst, it is too perilous! We must hide him somewhere till the wind has fallen—he and this love of his, Isoult of the Rose.”
“Whence comes she?”
“God knows. Half Breton, half English, I have heard it whispered.”
Knollys caught Walworth’s eyes.
“Walworth has a plan. Let him speak.”
“Sirs, in Surrey, there is the King’s Manor of the Black Mere—the house set on an island in the midst of a goodly sheet of water, very solitary and very safe. Let him go thither, riding by night, and lie hidden there with a few men who can be trusted.”
“Aye, and let him grow a beard. It will cover up the kingliness.”
“There is much in a beard—a good lusty beard!”
“Then, when ’tis safe, we will launch this good falcon and his mate into the Spanish skies.”
Knollys put in a last word.
“I and ten of my men will ride with them to the Black Mere. Can you give us a guide, Sir Mayor?”
“Aye, one to be trusted.”
Knollys took a light and went above to a little room under the tiles, where Fulk was lodged now that Richard the King was King again. Isoult slept with the Princess’s women.
Knollys had to hammer lustily on the door, before Fulk, wrapped in his surcoat, let him in.
“You sleep as well as you face a mob, my son. Shut the door. I have much to say.”
“More rebels to fool?”
“No, a much grimmer business. The King’s Council has most solemnly decreed that you shall grow a beard.”