CHAPTER XXIII
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 her prie-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.