He ended with a mocking laugh. Verily, pride such as this was full ready for a fall.
We knew afterward what had passed in that hour the day afore. The King had been hard to insense (cause to understand: still a Northern provincialism) at the first. So great was his faith in his mother that he ne could ne would believe any evil of her. As to the Mortimer, he was ready enough, for even now was he a-chafing under the yoke.
“Be he what he may—the very foul fiend himself an’ you will,” had he said to his Lords: “but she, mine own mother, my beloved—Oh, not she, not she!”
Then—for themselves were lost an’ they proved not their case—they were fain to bring forth their proofs. Sir William de Montacute told my Jack it was all pitiful to see how our poor young King’s heart fought full gallantly against the light as it brake on his understanding. Poor lad! for he was but a lad; and it troubled him sore. But they knew they must carry the matter through.
“Oh, have away your testimonies!” he cried more than once. “Spare her—and spare me! Mother, my mother, mine own dear Lady! how is this possible?”
At the last he knew all: knew who had set England in flame, who had done Sir Hugh Le Despenser and his son to death, who had been his own father’s murderer. The scales were off his eyes; and had he list to do it, he could never set them on again. They said he covered his face, and wept like the child he nearhand was. Then he lifted his head, the tears over, and in his eyes was the light of a settled purpose, and in his lips a stern avisement. No latsummes (backwardness, reluctance) was in him when once fully set.
“Take the Mortimer,” quoth he, firm enough.
“Sir,” quoth Sir William de Montacute, “we, not being lodged in the Castle, shall never be able to seize him without help of the Constable.”
“Now, surely,” saith the King, “I love you well: wherefore go to the Constable in my name, and bid him aid you in taking of the Mortimer, on peril of life and limb.”
“Sir, then God grant us speed!” saith Sir William.