“They are but seldom young, my lord, nor never so fair. They go to a shrine to do penance for sins; they are old in the world's ways.”
There was a pause, then Richard broke forth hotly:—
“If 't is not good that she go forth on this emprise, if 't is not true that the common folk is strong enough to put down the nobles, wherefore didst not thou prevent me when I gave consent? Thou art older than I. Is this thy loyauté, to let thy King play the fool?”
“Oh, my lord!” said Stephen, and hung his head; but not for shame of himself. Presently he looked up into the eyes of the sulky boy and spoke on: “I do not know if the people be strong enough and wise enough to do this thing. I do not know the people. I have lived among courtiers since I was a little lad and my father died. But if they do fail, my lord, the world will but wag as it did afore. Thine is not the blame; thou art too young to bear blame for 't; 't is the people that will be blamed.”
Richard flushed slowly, and looked away.
“But I will not be laughed at neither,” he said, with quivering lip. “I wish I had not given her my hunting-horn.”
“Trust me, sire,” said Stephen, “if the people do ever rise up in England against the oppression of the nobles, 't will be no laughing matter,—even though in the end it fail. And mayhap Calote knoweth that she speaketh,—mayhap 't will win.”
“I 'll not tell any one I gave her leave to use the King's name,” half-whispered Richard, shamefaced and scarlet; “nor must thou.”
“Of surety, no; 't would spoil all, to tell,” Stephen assented, but he was so filled with his own thoughts and how he should ask the boon he had to ask, that he failed to see how the King was ashamed.
Richard gave a quick sigh of relief. “Nay,—we 'll not tell,” he repeated. “'T would not be wise for Calote's sake to tell.” Yet his cheeks did not cool.