Another sort of peace they had. The City was perfectly calm, and its guardians utterly unsuspicious, when on the following night, Mr. Urswick, the Recorder of London, came down with a few more to Aldersgate, and quietly let in about a dozen men who were waiting outside. They were wrapped in long cloaks, in which they muffled their faces; and, accompanied by Urswick, they took their way to the Bishop's Palace. Behind the postern door the Archbishop's servant was waiting, and they were allowed to enter as silently as possible.
Upstairs, in the royal chamber, King Henry sat with that devout prelate who has been already mentioned. They had been discussing political matters for a short time, and then the King, turning to a subject more congenial to himself, had requested the Archbishop's opinion as to the meaning of a passage in the Psalms. Both by intuition and education, George Neville was about as well fitted to judge of the meaning of King David as a snail to decide the intentions of an eagle. But he was a priest; therefore of course he must be competent to expound Scripture. The prelate began glibly to explain that of which he had not the remotest idea, and the King meekly to receive instruction on a subject with which he was far better acquainted than his instructor. The notion that he could be better than any body in any possible sense, outside the mere fact of social position, never occurred to the mind of King Henry, one of the humblest Christians that ever breathed.
A slight click of the door-lock made the prelate look up. The King was too much interested in his subject, and his head was bent over the Psalter. In the doorway stood the Recorder of London, and several others were dimly visible behind him. The traitor knew that the hour of his treachery had come.
"What is this?" he exclaimed, with well feigned astonishment. "Master Urswick, who be these with you? The blessed saints be about us! Treachery, my gracious Lord, treachery! Here is my Lord of March!"
Aye, treachery enough! Henry lifted his head, rose, and confronted Edward with a steady gaze as he came forward boldly into the room.
They stood fronting each other, the two Kings, the cousins and rivals, each of whom saw in the other an unprincipled usurper. Only, in the one case, the conviction was a calm certainty that the thing was so, and in the other a feverish determination that it must and should be.
"What dost thou here in my place, thou rebel?" was the insolent demand of Edward, who had sworn many an oath of allegiance to the man whom he addressed.
"I am here in mine own, as God wot," was the dignified reply. "What would you with me?"
Edward turned to his followers without deigning a reply. "Take the rebel," said he, "and this priest with him."
The Archbishop, with well counterfeited terror, began to implore mercy. The King asked none, nor did he waste another word on Edward. He lifted his calm dark eyes heavenward, and merely said, to the sole Friend who was with him, "Fiat voluntas Tua!"