So to the Constable they went, and brake the matter, only at first bidding him in the King’s name (having his ring for a token) to aid them in a certain enterprise which concerned the King’s honour and safety. The Constable sware so to do, and then saith Sir William—
“Now, surely, dear friend, it behoved us to win your assent, in order to seize on the Mortimer, sith you are Keeper of the Castle, and have the keys at your disposal.”
Then the Constable, having first lift his brows and made grimace of his mouth, fell in therewith, and quoth he—
“Sirs, if it be thus, you shall wit that the gates of the Castle be locked with the locks that Queen Isabel sent hither, and at night she hath all the keys thereof, and layeth them under the pillow of her bed while morning: and so I may not help you into the Castle at the gates by any means. But I know an hole that stretcheth out of the ward under earth into the Castle, beginning on the west side (still called Mortimer’s Hole), which neither the Queen nor her following nor Mortimer himself, nor none of his company, know anything of; and through this passage I will lead you till you come into the Castle without espial of enemies.”
Thereupon went they forth that even, as though to flee away from the town, none being privy thereto save the King. And Saint Luke’s Day passed over quiet enough. The Queen went to mass in the Church of the White Friars, and offered at the high altar five shillings, her customary offering on the great feasts and chief saints’ days. All peaceful sped the day; the Queen gat her abed, and the keys being brought of the Constable’s deputy, I (that was that night in waiting) presented them unto her, which she received in her own hands and laid under the pillow of her bed. Then went we, her dames and damsels, forth unto our own chambers in the upper storey of the Castle: and I, set at the casement, had unlatched the same and thrown it open (being nigh as warm as summer), and was hearkening to the soft flow of the waters of the Leene, which on that side do nearhand wash the Castle wall. I was but then thinking how peaceful were all things, and what sore pity it were that man should bring in wrong, and bitterness, and anguish, on that which God had made so beautiful—when all suddenly my fair peace changed to fierce tumult and the clang of armed men—the tramp of mail-clad feet and the hoarse crying of roaring voices. I was as though I held my breath: for I could well guess what this portended. Then above all the routing and bruit (shouting and noise), came the voice of Queen Isabel, clear and shrill.
“Now, fair Sirs, I pray you that you do no harm unto his body, for he is a worthy knight, our well-beloved friend, and our dear cousin.”
“They have him, then!” quoth I, scarce witting that I spake aloud, nor who heard me.
“‘Have him!’” saith Dame Joan de Vaux beside me: “whom have they?”
Then, suddenly, a word or twain in the King’s voice came up to where we stood; on which hearing, an anguished cry rang out from Queen Isabel.
“Fair Son, fair Son! have pity on the sweet Mortimer!” (Note 8.)