Hastings bowed his head in assent. “Is that all, Lord Rivers?”
“All! and methinks enough.”
“Enough, by my halidame!” said Edward, laughing bitterly; “he shall see what a king dares, when a subject threatens. Admit the worshipful the deputies from our city of London,—lord chamberlain, it is thine office,—they await in the anteroom.”
Hastings gravely obeyed, and in crimson gowns, with purple hoods and gold chains, marshalled into the king’s presence a goodly deputation from the various corporate companies of London.
These personages advanced within a few paces of the dais, and there halted and knelt, while their spokesman read, on his knees, a long petition, praying the king to take into his gracious consideration the state of the trade with the Flemings; and though not absolutely venturing to name or to deprecate the meditated alliance with France, beseeching his grace to satisfy them as to certain rumours, already very prejudicial to their commerce, of the possibility of a breach with the Duke of Burgundy. The merchant-king listened with great attention and affability to this petition; and replied shortly, that he thanked the deputation for their zeal for the public weal,—that a king would have enough to do if he contravened every gossip’s tale; but that it was his firm purpose to protect, in all ways, the London traders, and to maintain the most amicable understanding with the Duke of Burgundy.
The supplicators then withdrew from the royal presence.
“Note you how gracious the king was to me?” whispered Master Heyford to one of his brethren; “he looked at me while he answered.”
“Coxcomb!” muttered the confidant, “as if I did not catch his eye when he said, ‘Ye are the pillars of the public weal!’ But because Master Heyford has a handsome wife he thinks he tosseth all London on his own horns!”
As the citizens were quitting the palace, Lord Rivers joined them. “You will thank me for suggesting this deputation, worthy sirs,” said he, smiling significantly; “you have timed it well!”—and passing by them, without further comment, he took the way to the queen’s chamber.
Elizabeth was playing with her infant daughter, tossing the child in the air, and laughing at its riotous laughter. The stern old Duchess of Bedford, leaning over the back of the state-chair, looked on with all a grandmother’s pride, and half chanted a nursery rhyme. It was a sight fair to see! Elizabeth never seemed more lovely: her artificial, dissimulating smile changed into hearty, maternal glee, her smooth cheek flushed with exercise, a stray ringlet escaping from the stiff coif!—And, alas, the moment the two ladies caught sight of Rivers, all the charm was dissolved; the child was hastily put on the floor; the queen, half ashamed of being natural, even before her father, smoothed back the rebel lock, and the duchess, breaking off in the midst of her grandam song, exclaimed,—