Ambrose thanked him and undertook the quest. They parted at the great west door of the Abbey, where, by way of vindicating his own character for buffoonery, Randall exclaimed, “Where be mine ass?” and not seeing the animal, immediately declared, “There he is!” and at the same time sprang upon the back and shoulders of a gaping and astonished clown who was gazing at the rear of the procession.
The crowd applauded with shouts of coarse laughter, but a man, who seemed to belong to the victim, broke in with an angry oath, and “How now, sir?”
“I cry you mercy,” quoth the jester; “’twas mine own ass I sought, and if I have fallen on thine, I will but ride him to York House and then restore him. So ho! good jackass,” crossing his ankles on the poor fellow’s chest so that he could not be shaken off.
The comrade lifted a cudgel, but there was a general cry of “My Lord Cardinal’s jester, lay not a finger on him!”
But Harry Randall was not one to brook immunity on the score of his master’s greatness. In another second he was on his feet, had wrested the staff from the hands of his astounded beast of burden, flourished it round his head after the most approved manner of Shirley champions at Lyndhurst fair, and called to his adversary to “come on.”
It did not take many rounds before Hal’s dexterity had floored his adversary, and the shouts of “Well struck, merry fool!” “Well played, Quipsome Hal!” were rising high when the Abbot of Westminster’s yeomen were seen making way through the throng, which fell back in terror on either side as they came to seize on the brawlers in their sacred precincts.
But here again my Lord Cardinal’s fool was a privileged person, and no one laid a hand on him, though his blood being up, he would, spite of his gay attire, have enjoyed a fight on equal terms. His quadruped donkey was brought up to him amid general applause, but when he looked round for Ambrose, the boy had disappeared.
The better and finer the nature that displayed itself in Randall, the more painful was the sight of his buffooneries to his nephew, and at the first leap, Ambrose had hurried away in confusion. He sought his brother here, there, everywhere, and at last came to the conclusion that Stephen must have gone home to dinner. He walked quickly across the fields separating Westminster from the City of London, hoping to reach Cheapside before the lads of the Dragon should have gone out again; but just as he was near St. Paul’s, coming round Amen Corner, he heard the sounds of a fray. “Have at the country lubbers! Away with the moonrakers! Flat-caps, come on!” “Hey! lads of the Eagle! Down with the Dragons! Adders Snakes—s-s s-s-s!”
There was a kicking, struggling mass of blue backs and yellow legs before him, from out of which came “Yah! Down with the Eagles! Cowards! Kites! Cockneys!” There were plenty of boys, men, women with children in their arms hallooing on, “Well done, Eagle!” “Go it, Dragon!”
The word Dragon filled the quiet Ambrose with hot impulse to defend his brother. All his gentle, scholarly habits gave way before that cry, and a shout that he took to be Stephen’s voice in the midst of the mêlée.