“Well said, my young cockerel! Thou crowest fairly.” The porter laughed as he set down the lantern which he had been holding up to the youth’s face, and took down a large key from the peg on which it hung. “What shall I say to my master touching thee?”
“Say, if it please you, that one would speak with him that hath important tidings, which closely concern the King’s welfare.”
“They were rash folks that trusted a slip like thee with important tidings.”
“None trusted me.”
“Eavesdropping, eh? Well, thou canst keep thine own counsel, lad as thou art. I will come back to thee shortly.”
It was nearly half an hour before the porter returned; but the youth never changed his position, as he stood leaning against the side of the porch.
“Come in,” said the porter, holding the wicket open. “Sir Piers will see thee. I told him, being sent of none, thou wert like to have no token.”
The unknown visitor followed the porter in silence through the paved courtyard, up a flight of stone steps, and into a small chamber, hung with blue. Here, at a table covered with parchments, sat one of King Henry’s ministers, Sir Piers de Rievaulx, son of the Bishop of Winchester, the worst living foe of Earl Hubert of Kent. He was on the younger side of middle age, and was only not quite so bad a man as the father from whom he inherited his dark gleaming eyes, lithe quick motions, intense prejudices, and profound artfulness of character.
“Christ save you! Come forward,” said Sir Piers. “Shut the door, Oliver, and let none enter till I bid it.—Now, who art thou, and what wouldst thou with me?”
“I am Delecresse, son of Abraham of Norwich.”